AN  IDLER  IN 


fir  I  Fs 

Mi  BL  III  ■  ait  i 


ii  inn 


tiwtii! 


':''.:'::; 


mi 


Hill 


WILLIAM  A.  NITZE 


m'NIE'S  experiment,' 
haffenden,' 

L,'  ETC. 


JN  ONE  VOLUME 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    8CRIBNERS    SONS 

1899 
All  rights  rutrttd 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  A.  NITZE 


■    • 

r{4 


OKIE'S  EXPERIMENT,' 
.  HAFFENDEN,' 

AN  IDLER  IN  01  KNA'ETC- 


Ztf  02V£  VOLUME 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SURIBNKR'S    SONS 

1899 
All  right*  rutrttd 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  A.  NITZE 


An  Idler  in  Old  France 


BY 

Tighe    Hopkins 


'  THE    DUNGEONS    OF  OLD  PARIS,'    '  LADY  BONNIE'S  EXPERIMENT,' 

1  PEPITA  OF  THE  PAGODA,'   '  NELL  HAFFENDEN,' 

'THE  NUGENTS  OF  CARRICONNA,'  ETC. 


IN  ONE  VOLUME 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    vSONS 

1899 
All  rights  rtttrted 


DC 

33 
Villi 


PREFACE. 

Here  is  a  sheaf  of  papers,  most  miscellaneous  in 
appearance,  but  dealing  principally  with  aspects  of 
the  social  life  of  older  France.  The  record  from 
which  I  had  to  choose  is  rich  and  varied,  and  it  was 
not  possible  to  tell  more  than  a  little  of  the  story  in 
the  compass  of  one  modest  volume.  The  subjects 
were  selected  partly  for  their  intrinsic  interest  (as  it 
seemed),  and  partly  for  the  reason  that  to  few  of 
them  is  much  space  allotted  in  the  novel  of  history. 
Some  suppression  of  detail  has  been  necessary,  for 
in  many  things  the  French  were  no  nicer  than  we 
were  up  to  the  beginning  of  this  century,  but  the 
reader  may  think  there  is  candour  enough  in  the 
chapters  on  the  streets  of  old  Paris,  the  toilet,  and 
the  table.  This  is  perhaps  sufficient  by  way  of  pre- 
face, for  the  book,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  explained. 
If  the  subject  be  not  to  the  reader's  taste,  he  will  not 
go  with  me  for  any  invitation  of  mine  ;   should  it 


vi  PREFACE 

like  him,  there  are  many  curious  and  pleasant  paths 
not  over-trodden  yet  in  this  romantic  tract,  which 
might  be  for  another  day. 

The  paper  on  '  Writing  and  Writing  Materials  '  is 
reprinted  from  the  Fortnightly  Review.  '  Gavarni ' 
and  '  An  Episode  in  the  History  of  the  Comedie 
Francaise  '  appeared  first  in  Macmillan.  Of  the  two 
papers  concerning  '  The  Bagne,'  one  was  published 
originally  in  Pearsons  Magazine  and  the  other  in  the 
Leisure  Hour.  '  Two  Civilities '  was  a  contribution 
to  the  series,  '  Among  my  Books,'  in  Literature. 

T.  H. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.— A  New  Picture  of  Old  Paris        .       .        1 

I. — The  Old  Paris  of  the  Novelist,  and  the  true  Old 
Paris — Impossible  to  tell  everything — Victor  Hugo's 
'  Notre  Dame ' — Lutetia  :  Lutum — The  streets  of  Mediaeval 
Paris — The  beginnings  of  the  Plague — The  Town  cannot  be 
Cleansed — Impossible  to  print  the  Names  of  the  Streets — 
Customs  of  Burial — Bury  where  you  Please — The  Cemetery 
of  the  Innocents. 

II. — Leprosy — The  Leper  dead  in  Life — fl?aris  under 
Louis  XIV. — The  King  dislikes  his  Capital — La  Reynie — 
The  Mud  of  Paris  sticks,  smells,  and  burns— JThe  Door- 
step of  M.  Corneille — Montaigne  and  Boileau— /The  Cham- 
ber-maid's '  Gare  l'eau  !' — The  Louvre  itself — The  Princess 
Palatine  and  Le  Sage — The  Scavenger's  Cart — Voltaire's 
Paris. 


II.— The  Toilet 34 

I. -^Mediaeval  Models  of  Religion— ^The  Monk  not  often 
in  theTub— JTwo  Baths  a  Year-AThe  Toilet  of  a  Nun— 
Duchesse  de  Mazarin's  Foot-bath — Popularity  of  the 
etuves—tRut  as  to  Morals  !— ^The  e'tuve  is  abandoned,  and  No 
one  Washes — The  Hands  of  Queen  Margaret  of  Navarre — 


viii  CONTENTS 

Personal  Cleanliness  at  the  Court  of  Louis  XIV*. — The  Man 
of  Fashion  washes  Occasionally — The  Ladies  ? 

II. — The  Hair  and  the  Beard — The  Beard  in  Contro- 
versy—c-The  Beard  is  '  contrary  to  modesty ' — The  Peruke 
and  its  Varieties — The  Mouche — Powder— (The  Coiffeur e  and 
the  Pouf- — Marie  Antoinette  at  the  Ball  of  Duchesse  de 
Chartres. 

III. — Old  Paris  at  Table      ....      60 

I. — The  Markets  of  Old  Paris-»-Old  Paris  feeds  but  does 
not  Dine — Rabelais's  Gastrolaters  are  the  Parisians  of  the  Re- 
naissance at  Table — '  Prodigious  feasting ' — Sumptuary  Laws 
of  no  Avail — Jerome  Lippomano — Kings  at  Table — The 
Appetite  of  Louis  XIV". — Capons  '  greased  '  with  Sugar- 
plums— The  first  Treatises  on  Cookery — The  •  Petits  Sou- 
pers '  of  the  Due  D'Orleans. 

II.— fCustems  at  Table — How  the  Courses  were  Served — 
Drinking — 4  Not  incorrect  to  be  Drunk ' — The  Example  of 
the  Court. 

III. — Luxury  without  Comfort — The  Seigneur  prefers  to 
Dine  in  the  Kitchen— (The  Salle  has  no  Chairs,  no  Carpet, 
and  is  Lighted  with  xorches — Table-linen — Plate — Gold 
and  Silver  plate  a  form  of  Capital — The  Dinner-hour — The 
Court  eats  Seldom,  the  Bourgeoisie  at  all  Opportunities — 
Fasts — The  rigour  and  pains  of  Fasting  in  the  Middle 
Ages — Royalty  dining  in  Public — A  Queen  at  Table. 

IV.— Two  'Civilities' 93 

i  Sit  down  to  Table  with  your  Hat  on,'  and  '  Go  to  Din- 
ner with  your  hands  Clean  ' — The  Guest  is  '  on  no  account 
to  smack  his  lips ' — Fingers  before  Forks — The  '  brilliant 
notion  of  the  Ladle  ' — '  Do  not  try  to  eat  Soup  with  a  Fork ' — 
{The  correct  talk  at  Table — The  '  Civilite '  admonishes  the 
Guest  '  not  to  blow  out  the  cheeks  in  drinking,'  and  '  not  to 
scratch  himself  in  company.' 


CONTENTS  ix 

V. — The  French  Medieval  Inn    .        .        .101 

The  Epigram  of  Maitre  Gonin — The  wolfish  Host — The 
Inn  a  '  parlous  refuge '  for  the  Honest  Traveller — Monks  at 
the  Inn — The  Scholars  of  the  University — The  Scholars' 
Excuse — Rabelais  and  Montaigne  on  the  College  of  Mon- 
taigu — The  bond  fide  Traveller  of  the  Middle  Ages — The 
Army  drinks,  but  does  not  Pay — Pilgrims — Rabelais's  Friar 
John  of  the  Funnels  not  a  Travesty  but  a  Type — St.  Julien, 
the  Patron  Saint  of  Travellers — Example  of  the  Crusades — 
Signs  and  Sign-boards — The  Criers  of  Wine — King,  Seig- 
neur, and  Abbe  in  competition  with  the  Inn-Keeper — 
Wretched  state  of  Rural  Inns — Joan  of  Arc's  father  at 
the  '  Striped  Ass.' 

VI.— A  Medieval  Pulpit       .        .        .        .128 

Frere  Maillard  of  Saint-Jean-en-Greve. — He  denounces 
Merchants,  Money-changers,  Lawyers,  Counsellors  of  Par- 
liament, the  Clergy,  the  Scholars,  the  Publishers,  the  Gal- 
lants, and  the  Ladies,  and  consigns  them  all  to  the  Pit. 

VII. — Apprentice,  Workman,  and  Master    .    137 

Apprenticeship  an  Important  Institution  in  Mediaeval 
France — Jealousy  and  Exclusiveness  of  the  Guilds — Dura- 
tion of  Apprenticeship  in  one  Trade  and  another-(-The 
Master's  Responsibility — Runaway  'Prentices — The  Vente 
and  the  Rachat — Before  the  Jurors-f-General  Condition  of 
the  Workman  in  the  Middle  Ages — Conditions  of  Industry — 
Master  and  Man — Charities — The  Principle  of  Solidarite — 
Standards  of  Workmanship — A  Comparison  with  our  own 
Age. 

VIII. — The    Surgeons,    the   Barbers,    and 

the  Faculty  of  Medicine        .        .156 

Surgery  begins  with  the  Barbers — The  Faculty  of  Medi- 
cine— '  Poor    Devils  of    Artisans  ' — The  Struggle  between 


x  CONTENTS 

the  Doctors,  the  Barbers,  and  the  Surgeons  up  to  the  Six- 
teenth Century — The  Advance  of  the  Barbers — Ambroise 
Pare — The  Pope,  the  University,  and  the  Parliament — 
Compromise  between  Surgeons  and  Barbers — The  new  War 
with  the  Faculty — Rout  of  the  Surgeons — A  Note  on  the 
History  of  Dissection — Gallows  plundered  and  Graves 
rifled — Louis  XIV.  in  the  hands  of  the  Surgeon — Benefits 
that  accrued  to  the  Profession — The  Barber's  Apprentice — 
End  of  the  Struggle. 

IX. — The  Chase  :      From   Charlemagne  to 

Louis  XIV 189 

The  Merovingians — Legend  of  St.  Hubert — The  Chase 
becomes  the  National  Pastime — The  Splendid  Hunts  of 
Charlemagne — The  Hunting-Parks  of  Philippe  Auguste — 
The  Warrens  of  the  Seigneurs — Earliest  Treatise  on  the 
Chase — Ladies  in  the  Field — Clerical  Sportsmen — Gaston 
de  Foix — Louis  XL — He  wants  all  France  for  his  Hunting- 
Ground — Rat-hunting  in  the  King's  Bed-chamber — Falconry 
— Diane  de  Poitiers — Catherine  de  Medicis — Charles  IX. 
killing  Pigs  and  Asses — Henri  IV. — Old  Game  Laws — 
Opposition  of  the  Old  School  to  Fire-arms — Louis  XIV. — A 
Nimrod  at  Thirteen — Magnificence  of  Louis  XIV.'s  Stables, 
Kennels,  and  Aviary — Officers  of  the  Chase — The  old  King 
and  his  Four-in-hand— fHunting-Laws  of  Louis  XIV. 

X. — Writing  and  Writing  Materials  .        .    224 

The  Scriptorium — The  Copyists — A  Pious  Task — The 
demon  Titivillus — The  Hard  Struggle  of  the  Clerk — No 
Materials  and  no  Models — Parchment-maker  and  Publican — 
Qualities  of  Parchment — The  Human  skin  no  Good — The 
Paris  University  and  its  Clients — The  Celebrated  gold  ink 
of  the  Monks — Its  Secret  lost  to  us — The  Booksellers — Fa- 
mous Copyists — Penmanship  on  the  Decline — The  Begin- 
nings of  Printing — The  Gothic  Hand — Handwriting  of 
the  Kings  of  France—wMaster-Writers  in  the  Seventeenth 


CONTENTS  t± 

Century — Attempts  to  fix  a  Standard  of  Writing — The 
Modern  Style— ^Handwriting  of  Richelieu,  Buffon,  Moliere, 
Rousseau,  Voltaire,  and  others — Fashions  in  Note-paper — 
Why  a  Love-letter  was  called  a  ■  Fowl.' 

XI.— The  Bagne 246 

L— SUCCESSORS  OF  THE  GALLEY-SLAVE. 

Formats  marching  in  chains  to  the  Bagne — The  '  Song  of  the 
Widow  ' — Sufferings  on  the  March — What  the  Bagne  was — 
'  Hard  Labour '  and  '  Life  '  Sentences — The  Accouplement, 
or  Coupling  of  Formats  by  the  Leg — Varieties  of  Labour 
— The  •  New  Chum '  on  the  chain — Penal  Code  of  the  Bagne 
— Guillotine,  '  double-chain,'  and  bastonnade — The  salles 
(Ve'preuve,  or  good-conduct  rooms — The  '  gentleman  '  lag — 
Governors  of  the  Bagne. 

IL— THE  FOEQAT  AS  PRISON-BREAKER. 

Prison-breaking  not  what  it  was — An  example  from  Major 
Hawley  Smart — How  it  could  not  be  done  at  Portland — 
Flights  from  the  Bagnes — Difficulties — Penalties — Never- 
theless, Flights  were  frequent — The  famous  Petit — Arigonde 
— Cochot — Victor  Desbois — A  gonnette — Andre  Fanfan — 
The  cache  or  cachette — One  might  be  buried  alive — The 
'  Escape  of  Nine  ' — Felon-hunters. 


XII. — An  Episode  in   the  History  of  the 

COMtfDIE  FRANgAISE      .  .  .  .287 

I. — The  Troubles  of  Royalty,  November,  1789 — Voltaire's 
Prophecy — Commotion  over  Chenier's  '  Charles  IX.' — Talma 
to  the  Fore — Danton  says  Chenier  has  '  cut  the  throat  of 
royalty' — Talma  expelled  from  the  Comedie  Francaise — 
Recalled — The  Comedie  Francaise  under  Suspicion — 
'  Pamela ' — Uproar  in  the  Theatre — The  Players  arrested, 
and  the  Comedie  Francaise  closed. 

II. — The  Paris  Prisons  during  the  Reign  of  Terror — The 
Players  in  Les  Maddonnettes — State  of  the  Prison — '  Half 


xii  CONTENTS 

a  pair  of  Snuffers ' — The  Call  to  the  Guillotine — Concierge 
Vaubertrand — Small-pox — Good  Dr.  Dupontet — Preparing 
the  dossiers  of  the  Players — '  G.'  for  the  Guillotine — Heroic 
Labussiere — Reunited. 


XIII.— GAVARNI 312 

Gavarni  compared  with  Balzac — How  Gavarni  got  his 
Pencil-name — Boyhood  and  Youth — Paris,  1828 — Gavarni 
works  like  a  madman — At  twenty-eight  he  is  '  a  known  and 
appreciated  talent ' — Balzac  sings  his  Praises — In  the  Whirl 
of  it — '  Le  Journal  des  Gens  du  Monde ' — Gavarni  in  the 
Debtor's  Prison — Some  of  his  Albums — '  The  Students  of 
Paris ' — Carnival — Gavarni  the  Epigrammatist — In  London 
— Will  not  be  Lionised — Visits  from  Thackeray  and  Dickens 
— '  Does  not  know  what  an  Englishwoman  is  ' — Commanded 
to  Windsor — His  astounding  breach  of  Etiquette — Returns 
to  Paris — Three  hundred  and  sixty-five  Cartoons  in  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  Days — His  Retreat  at  Auteuil — The 
new  Railway — Returns  heart-broken  to  Paris — '  A  living 
Sepulchre ' — Last  Days — Death. 


AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS 

I. 

It  is  vain  to  seek  in  fiction  for  any  faithful  picture 
of  the  Paris  that  has  been.  But  might  not  the  same 
be  said  in  respect  of  any,  or  almost  any,  mediaeval 
capital  ?  We  scarcely  know  what  any  one  of  them 
was  actually  like  ;  I  do  not  mean  in  regard  to  the 
externals  of  architecture,  the  marshalling  of  crowds 
in  proper  costume  on  gala  days,  the  processions  of 
priests,  magistrates,  councillors  in  fur,  or  jingling 
soldiers,  the  fetes  and  fairs  and  mystery  shows  in 
the  crooked  streets  or  at  the  crossways,  the  scenes 
of  the  pillory,  the  gibbet,  or  the  lighted  pile, — for 
all  of  these  have  been  managed  often,  and  very  well 
managed.     But  the  old  town  itself  under  its  physical 

B 


2  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

aspects,  naked  and  not  disguised  by  literary  art ; 
the  normal  visage  of  these  old  streets  as  they  are 
lived  in  through  the  seasons,  and  not  as  they  are 
glimpsed  while  the  pageant  is  passing  or  the  booths 
of  the  fair  obstruct  them ;  the  phases  of  the  old  town 
as  it  spreads  wider  and  climbs  higher,  bursting  its 
old  bonds,  as  every  capital  town,  or  every  town  that 
is  to  become  a  capital,  is  everlastingly  doing ;  above 
all,  the  squalor,  the  malodour,  and  the  frank  con- 
tempt of  decency  in  which  the  whole  population 
lives  contentedly,  from  the  king  in  his  unsavoury 
palace  to  the  scavenger  whose  leaky  tumbril  distri- 
butes its  liquid  black  contents  among  pedestrians 
who  have  never  the  refuge  of  a  footpath :  this,  the 
real  and  habitual  status,  romance  does  not  disclose. 

The  novel  of  history,  a  pure  convention,  though 
at  its  best  a  most  fascinating  convention,  goes 
sparkling  and  bustling  through  certain  picked 
phases  of  the  life  of  some  age  remote,  with  clatter  of 
hoofs  and  clink  of  steel,  delightful  stolen  interviews, 
abductions  and  rescues,  duels  to  the  death,  fateful 
errands,  and  the  careful  losing  of  documents  on  which 
everything  depends. 

But  this  captivating  art  shows  us  a  great  deal 
less  of  historic  life  than  it  pretends  to  do  ;  and  since 
adventure  and  swiftness  of  movement  are  prime 
conditions  of  success,  the  artist  may  not  tarry  long 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  3 

in  scenes  where  nothing  sets  the  pulse  a-beating. 
There  is  much  besides,  of  high  and  perennial 
interest  in  its  relation  to  social  and  domestic  pro- 
gress, which  a  romancer  the  most  conscientious 
could  not  write  of  if  he  would.  If  he  did  write  of 
it,  his  publisher  would  refuse  him  the  indispensable 
assistance  of  print.  His  book  would  get  none  but  a 
backstair  circulation  in  manuscript. 

During  the  period  in  which  hygiene,  whether 
public  or  private,  had  scarcely  any  existence  in 
Europe  as  a  scientific  theory,  and  almost  no  exist- 
ence whatever  as  a  practised  art  (and  this  period 
was  not  quite  ended  at  the  beginning  of  our  own 
century),  the  notion  of  decency,  as  we  call  it,  either 
indoors  or  out  of  doors,  was  not  more  advanced  in 
the  politest  and  most  populous  capital  than  it  is  at 
this  day  in  the  least  visited  habitations  of  the 
Esquimaux. 

To  take  one  example  at  random:  you  may 
describe  the  plague  almost  as  realistically  as  you 
please,  but  it  would  tax  a  Flaubert's  genius  in  fitting 
the  idea  with  the  word  to  set  out,  for  publication, 
the  literal  situation,  in  London,  in  Paris,  in  Florence, 
or  in  Rome,  out  of  which  the  plague  arose.  We 
should  find  the  conditions  proper  to  the  breeding  of 
disease,  not  only  in  every  street  of  the  town — in 
things  seen  every  day  by  everybody,  and  noticed 

B  2 


4  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

by  nobody — but  on  the  stairway  and  in  the  corri- 
dors of  the  palace,  in  the  courtyards  of  princes  and 
nobles,  in  the  cloisters  of  the  monastery,  and  in 
every  detail  of  the  inner  domestic  economy  of  the 
heroine  of  old  romance. 

The  toilet  of  the  king,  and  of  the  king's  mistress, 
and  of  the  celebrated  and  perennial  duchess  of  fiction 
who  was  anybody's  mistress,  has  been  painted  often 
on  polite  canvases,  and  oftener  still  in  romance  not 
less  polite ;  and  we  seem  to  be  quite  familiar  with 
every  process  in  the  mystery,  and  we  are  never 
shocked.  But  the  canvas  is  a  fantasy  for  the  eye, 
and  the  novel  a  fantasy  for  eye  and  ear ;  and  the 
details  of  the  toilet  before  the  era  of  hygiene  are  a 
little  impolite,  a  little  difficult  in  print, — and  useful 
chiefly  at  this  day  as  a  means  of  tracing  the  origins 
of  epidemics.  I  spoke  of  Flaubert,  but  I  believe  the 
Swift  of  the  Gulliver  unbowlderised,  and  going  yet 
one  point  nearer  to  nature,  would  be  necessary  to  us. 

To  take,  not  quite  so  much  at  random,  one  other 
instance :  I  know  of  one  book  only,  in  modem  French, 
which  has  the  atmosphere  of  that  forgotten  Paris 
which  so  many  writers  of  romance  have  pretended  to 
re-create  for  us ;  an  atmosphere  which  chokes  at  this 
day.  It  is  a  book  partly  scientific,  a  book  crowned 
by  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  a  book,  therefore, 
which  may  be  regarded  as  not  intended  for  the  read- 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  5 

ing  of  everybody ;  yet  the  author  is  obliged  to  rele- 
gate some  of  the  most  significant  of  his  illustrations 
to  the  comparative  shelter  of  an  appendix. 

Observe,  again,  the  particular  adroitness  with 
which  Victor  Hugo  evades  the  difficulty  of  describ- 
ing in  detail  the  Paris  of  the  fifteenth  century.  I 
refer  to  the  chapter,  entitled  '  A  Bird's-eye  View  of 
Paris,'  which  brings  to  a  close  the  third  book  of 
*  Notre  Dame.'  Now,  a  tour  through  the  streets  of 
Paris  when  Louis  XI.  was  king,  Victor  Hugo  showing 
the  way,  would  have  been  a  great  experience  ;  but 
it  would  also  have  been,  in  very  many  respects,  an 
extremely  shocking  one.  What  does  Hugo  do  ?  He 
says  nothing  as  to  the  state  of  the  streets,  but  dis- 
creetly hinting  that  there  is  a  very  fine  view  to  be 
had  from  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  he  carries  the 
reader  forthwith  to  that  chaste  altitude.  Once  there, 
all  is  safe. 

I  cannot  but  think,  indeed,  that  even  from  the 
cathedral  top  a  very  ordinary  nostril  would  have 
been  aware  of  the  celebrated  smell  of  mediaeval 
Paris ;  but  M.  Hugo  has  very  resolutely  stopped  his 
nose,  and  readers  whom  that  rich  romance  has 
charmed  a  score  of  times  pass  under  his  spell  again 
as  he  surveys  for  them  the  innumerable  congregation 
of  the  gothic  roofs,  the  hanging  turrets  at  the  angles 
of  the  city  walls,  the  pointed  gables,  the  clustered 


6  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

towers  of  palace,  church,  and  donjon,  the  great  gates, 
the  bridges  piled  with  dwellings,  the  carved  and 
painted  house-fronts  with  projecting  storeys; — all 
that  labyrinth  of  the  external  art  of  a  capital  already 
vast  in  its  dimensions.  Nothing  could  be  more  im- 
posing— as  a  bird's-eye  view. 

To  descend  from  the  pinnacle,  and  (leaving  M. 
Hugo  to  go  on  with  the  story  of  Esmeralda)  to  start 
out  a-foot  through  the  city  is,  however,  to  begin  at 
once  a  miserable  process  of  disenchantment. 

Old  chroniclers  have  derived  Lutetia,  the  name  by 
which  Paris  was  first  known,  from  Lutum,  mud.  The 
etymology  is  inexact,  but  the  chroniclers  thought 
otherwise,  and  the  mud  was  always  there  to  bear 
them  out.  During  eleven  centuries  scarcely  anyone 
in  authority  bestowed  a  thought  upon  the  dreadful 
condition  of  the  streets.  Now  and  again  some  ener- 
getic provost  declared  for  purging  them,  but  no 
assistance  could  he  get.  Paris  immersed  in  mud  was 
not  ashamed.  The  unpaved  streets,  rough  as  a  wood- 
land track,  had  no  proper  slope,  no  course  for  the 
waste  waters  from  the  houses,  which  made  their  own 
channels,  and  settled  into  stagnant  pools  wherever 
they  were  checked.  Citizens  on  foot  were  avoiding 
at  one  moment  pits  or  mounds  of  a  quite  indescrib- 
able character,  and  at  another  contesting  the  way 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  7 

with  the  pigs,  dogs,  geese,  ducks,  and  rabbits  which 
swarmed  around  the  pools  and  gutters. 

In  1131,  the  heir  to  the  throne,  Philippe,  son  of 
Louis  le  Gros,  riding  through  the  Rue  St.  Jean,  was 
thrown  by  an  abbot's  pig,  and  died  from  his  injuries. 
During  the  snows,  rains,  or  frosts  of  winter  the  nar- 
row streets  were  impossible  for  carts  (as  for  carriages, 
there  were  none  whatever),  and  in  summer  these 
same  streets  exhaled  an  odour  which  rose  above  the 
house-tops  and  spread  itself  beyond  the  farthest 
environs.  It  was  said  that,  on  the  darkest  night  of 
the  year,  the  traveller  out  of  his  course  might  know 
by  the  scent  whether  he  were  within  a  league  or  two 
leagues  of  Paris. 

Within  the  walls,  a  few  fine  houses  surprised  by 
their  solidity  and  height,  but  Paris  in  general  was 
still  a  winding  maze  of  huts. 

In  1185,  Philippe- Auguste,  standing  at  an  open 
window  of  the  palace,  observed  a  cart  fast  by  the 
wheels  in  the  swamp  that  passed  for  a  royal  thorough- 
fare, and  sickened  of  the  stench.  He  gave  an  order 
forthwith  for  the  paving  of  the  city,  but  as  the  work 
was  to  be  done  at  the  people's  expense,  his  majesty 
offering  only  a  very  slender  contribution,  it  was 
abandoned  some  little  while  before  it  was  properly 
begun.  The  commissioners  of  ways  and  thorough- 
fares  appointed  to   conduct  the  enterprise  got  no 


8  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

farther  than  a  general  blackmailing  of  the  smaller 
kinds  of  street  merchants,  whose  booths  and  stalls 
were  threatened; — a  bundle  of  straw  from  one,  a 
pound  or  two  of  candles  from  another,  a  cheese  from 
a  third,  a  goose  from  the  poulterer,  a  cake  from  the 
pastryman,  a  pair  of  boots  from  the  boot-maker,  and 
so  forth. 

In  the  interests  of  the  paving  of  Paris,  which  con- 
tinued unpaved,  they  levied  a  tax  upon  duellists, 
one  portion  to  be  paid  on  the  day  of  challenge,  and 
the  remainder  when  the  place  of  combat  had  been 
chosen.  Henceforth,  no  new  street  should  be  be- 
gun, nor  the  line  of  any  street  altered,  until  the 
commissioners'  commission  had  been  agreed  upon ; 
but  all  this  was  barren  of  result,  and,  as  before,  the 
normal  aspect  of  Paris  gave  the  chroniclers  to  think 
that  Lutetia  must  certainly  be  derived  from  Lutum. 

During  many  centuries  of  French  history,  as  a 
witty  historian  has  observed,  laws  of  every  kind  can 
be  regarded  only  as  '  des  aspirations  plus  ou  moins 
platoniques  de  l'autorite  vers  un  meilleur  etat  so- 
cial.' Wars,  seditions,  rebellions,  the  conflicts  of 
authorities  imperfectly  defined  and  always  jealous 
of  each  other,  and  the  utter  unwillingness  of  the 
people  to  submit  themselves  to  sanitary  regu- 
lations which  they  were  incapable  of  understanding, 
rendered  progress  in  this  direction  the  most  forlorn 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  9 

of  hopes.  Authority  goes  on  periodically  and  placid- 
ly renewing  its  injunctions,  and  nobody  dreams  of 
obeying  them. 

In  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  (1348)  a 
new  ordinance  insisted  that  the  streets  must  be  re- 
gularly cleansed  and  swept,  that  the  inhabitants 
must  keep  the  fronts  of  their  houses  decent  (which 
were  habitually  disfigured  in  a  manner  past  all  ren- 
dering in  English),  and  that  pigs  must  be  denied 
the  public  ways.  Abbots  and  priors  were  especially 
privileged  to  let  their  swine  feed  in  the  streets  of 
Paris,  but  the  new  decree  enjoined  upon  the  ser- 
geants of  the  CMtelet  to  kill  at  sight  even  the  pigs 
of  the  Church.  The  heads  they  might  keep,  the 
carcases  they  were  to  carry  to  the  hospitals.  This 
decree  had  no  kinder  fate,  however,  than  its  prede- 
cessors ;  yet  Paris  was  not  without  warnings.  The 
leper  was  always  within  her  gates,  and  the  plague 
burst  at  last. 

The  earliest  visitation  of  marked  severity  was  in 
the  year  of  this  abortive  edict  of  1348,  and  during 
eighteen  months  it  sowed  terror  through  the  care- 
less city.  At  its  height,  the  panic  was  such  that 
they  said  if  you  did  but  look  at  a  victim  you  would  be 
smitten  within  the  day.  The  king  called  upon  his 
faculty  of  medicine  for  a  remedy;  the  faculty  had 
none  to  offer,   but,  'apres  de  longues  discussions/ 


30  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

they  sent  to  inform  his  majesty  that  the  plague  was 
the  result  of  a  hostile  conjunction  of  the  planets 
Man  and  Jupiter.  Fear  exaggerated  the  numbers 
of  the  dead.  Of  every  twenty  souls  in  Paris,  says 
one,  eighteen  were  taken  ;  one  hundred  a  day,  says 
a  second,  and  '  altogether  eighty  thousand  in  Paris,' 
a  third.  Yet,  when  the  plague  was  stayed,  Paris 
was  as  insouciant  as  before.  Early  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  Charles  VI.  declared  it  a  marvel  that  the 
whole  town  was  not  dead  from  drinking  the  water 
of  the  Seine  (but  of  this,  since  the  taverns  were  not 
lacking  custom,  it  is  probable  that  less  was  imbibed 
than  the  king  supposed),  yet  the  dwellers  on  both 
banks  of  the  river  went  on  adding  their  slops  to  that 
poisoned  flood. 

The  plague  returned.  In  1418  it  slew  so  many 
of  the  population  that  masses  for  the  dead  were 
scarcely  to  be  purchased,  and  the  grave-diggers  are 
said  to  have  buried  one  hundred  thousand  victims 
between  the  festivals  of  the  Nativity  and  the  Con- 
ception of  the  Virgin.  In  1427,  1433,  1438,  and 
1445  the  pest  renewed  itself ;  and  five  years  later,  in 
1450,  the  deaths  in  a  space  of  eight  weeks  are  de- 
clared to  have  reached  the  incredible  number  of 
forty  thousand.  Still,  what  but  this  could  happen 
in  a  city  which  had  an  open  sewer  bubbling  through 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  11 

its  centre  ?  Not  a  sewer  was  arched  in  Paris  till  the 
beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

During  the  first  quarter  of  the  sixteenth — 1500, 
1510,  1516,  1519,  1522,  and  1530 — epidemic  succeed- 
ed epidemic.  In  1522,  four  doctors,  consulted  as 
experts,  asserted  on  oath  that  not  a  single  street  in 
the  town  was  free  from  the  taint  of  plague.  Par- 
liament decreed  that  the  whole  town  be  scoured, 
and  kept  scoured,  at  the  State's  cost,  and  went  on 
to  order  a  tax ;  but  the  tax  could  not  be  collected, 
and  the  town  could  not  be  scoured.  Year  by  year  a 
new  law  was  passed,  and  a  way  was  found  to  evade 
it. 

In  1531,  houses  which  the  plague  had  touched 
were  to  be  marked  with  a  cross ;  and  persons  who 
had  had  the  plague,  and  had  recovered  from  it,  or 
who  were  deemed  likely  to  have  the  plague,  and 
not  to  recover  from  it,  were  to  carry  a  white  wand  in 
the  streets.  No  articles  were  to  be  sold  out  of  shops 
which  the  pest  had  breathed  upon,  and  no  beggars 
or  pilgrims  suspected  of  leprosy  were  to  be  admitted 
into  Paris.  Scavengers  were  to  go  through  the 
streets  twice  a  day,  between  seven  in  the  morning 
and  noon,  and  between  two  in  the  afternoon  and  six, 
and  every  householder  was  to  be  ready  with  his  re- 
fuse when  the  cart  arrived.     The  police  were  to  en- 


12  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

force  these  orders  by  visits  at  stated  hours  to  every 
quarter  of  the  town.  But  nobody  set  the  police  in 
motion,  and  nobody  was  set  in  motion  by  the  police. 
The  new  laws  went  by  the  board,  as  the  old  ones 
had  done. 

After  the  plague  authority  was  never  quite  asleep, 
but  it  could  never  draw  the  town  to  its  support.  In 
the  intervals  of  fighting  the  plague  it  turned  again 
to  the  paving  of  the  streets,  but  no  paving  was  to 
be  accomplished  on  any  system  of  taxation.  The 
street  of  Grenelle-Saint-Honore  was  to  be  paved  at 
the  expense  of  the  inhabitants,  but  when  the  nuns 
of  the  convent  of  Penitent  Women  were  solicited 
for  their  contribution  the  abbess  maintained  that 
the  vows  of  her  order  involved  nothing  in  the  mat- 
ter of  public  cleanliness.  The  clergy  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood were  appealed  to,  but  they  held  the  abbess 
in  the  right ;  there  was  no  precedent  for  taxing  re- 
ligion in  the  interests  of  sanitation. 

Nominal  authority,  turning  this  way  or  that,  found 
itself  opposed  at  every  corner.  Here  you  had  to 
deal  with  some  seigneur  who  stood  upon  feudal 
rights  which  had  lapsed  with  feudality ;  here  again 
with  the  chapter  of  a  cathedral  which  set  itself 
above  the  ruling  of  a  Pope,  and  here  once  more  (a 
power  to  be  wheedled  where  coercion  failed)  with 
the  king  himself.     The  king,  before  the  era  of  ab- 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  13 

solutism,  had  no  complete  prerogative  except  in  a 
matter  of  treason,  and  as  a  landlord  in  Paris  he 
stood,  in  respect  of  acreage,  a  good  deal  lower  than 
several  of  his  subjects.  These  lesser  powers  held  a 
power  absolute  on  their  own  ground  in  Paris,  and 
years  were  spent  by  the  officers  of  the  CMtelet  in 
hoaxing,  bribing,  and  fighting  them  for  control  of 
the  streets.  It  was  not  imtil  1674 — a  little  longer 
than  two  hundred  years  ago — that  Louis  XIV.  laid 
them  low,  and  set  the  authority  of  the  Crown  above 
them  all. 

But  the  streets  themselves  (under  whatever  con- 
trol), these  streets  that  showed  so  finely  from  the 
summit  of  Notre  Dame,  could  scarcely  have  been 
rendered  proper  by  any  effort  of  sanitary  science. 
One  does  not  realise  at  this  day  the  structure  of  the 
gothic  town,  which  is  never  seen  at  its  best  except 
upon  paper,  or  on  the  canvas  of  the  scene-painter.  The 
streets  were  not  really  streets,  they  were  passages  ; 
you  leaned  out  of  the  window  to  talk  with  your 
neighbour  opposite,  and  when  a  Charles  IX.,  before 
the  memory  of  the  Bartholomew  Massacre  had  made 
him  stupid  with  melancholy,  slipped  out  at  night  to 
jump  the  roofs  with  his  friends,  he  had  but  to  clear 
the  breadth  of  a  dyke.  This  was  the  street  of 
ancient  Paris  in  its  width,  and  in  height  it  was  pro- 
portionate ;  it  let  in  little  air,  and  scarcely  any  sun. 


1*  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

If  the  citizens  had  elected  to  live  by  the  strictest 
rules  of  health,  their  conditions  and  surroundings 
would  have  been  greatly  against  them  ;  but,  in  cir- 
cumstances which  built  the  odds  up  on  the  other 
side,  they  fought  in  aid  of  the  enemy — disease. 
The  heaps  and  hillocks  of  rotting  matter  and  other 
abominations,  the  gaping  holes  which  received  con- 
tributions of  the  same  description,  the  pools  of  filthy 
water,  and  the  reeking  sewer  as  hideous  to  the  sight 
as  to  the  smell,  made  each  frequented  thoroughfare 
a  separate  centre  of  infection. 

The  very  names  of  many  of  the  streets,  cynical 
avowals  of  what  the  streets  themselves  were  like, 
are  the  grossest  reading.  A  list  to  fill  a  page  might 
be  compiled,  but  in  naked  English  half  the  names 
would  set  the  reader's  hair  on  end.  Some  are  the 
names  of  streets  which  must  have  been  veritable 
cloacce,  others  speak  significantly  of  the  wretched 
state  of  the  inhabitants  or  of  their  dangerous  char- 
acter, and  others  proclaim  the  haunts  of  the  robber, 
the  cut-throat,  or  the  debauchee.  It  was  rare  to  see 
a  person  of  the  Court,  a  nobleman,  a  churchman  of 
rank,  a  counsellor  of  parliament,  or  a  wealthy  citizen 
on  foot  in  these  unsightly  and  unseemly  thorough- 
fares, and  before  coaches  came  into  use,  which  was 
not  until  the  period  of  the  Renaissance,  ladies  went 
an  litters,  or  rode  behind  their  husbands  en  croupe. 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  15 

Private  dwellings,  not  merely  the  poor  wooden 
tenements  of  citizens  of  the  humbler  classes,  but  the 
mansions  of  the  wealthy,  the  great  residences  of 
princes,  the  royal  palace  itself,  and  habitations 
numerously  peopled,  such  as  monasteries,  colleges, 
asylums,  and  even  hospitals,  were  destitute,  literally 
destitute  for  centuries  of  sanitary  appliances  the 
most  ordinary,  the  most  indispensable.  In  the 
lighter  kinds  of  histories,  the  memoirs  and  collec- 
tions of  anecdotes,  this  necessitous  condition  of 
every  household,  from  the  most  exalted  to  the 
meanest,  is  often  turned  to  humorous  account ;  but 
as  the  humour  is  so  generally  scabrous,  or  tending 
that  way,  there  is  no  transplanting  it. 

One  may  read  in  Brantdme,  without  too  much 
embarrassment,  the  surprising  misadventure  of  Ad- 
miral Bonnivet  at  the  Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand's, 
in  the  chamber  to  which  King  Francis  had  retired  ; 
but  even  in  reading,  one  feels  that  out  of  Brantome 
the  legend  would  never  do.  Similarly,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  laugh,  and  not  to  laugh  heartily,  over  certain 
details  of  the  provost's  arrangements  for  the  entry 
into  Paris  of  Anne  of  Brittany  and  her  ladies,  in  1504 ; 
his  provision,  not  of  waiting-women  but  of  waiting- 
men  at  particular  places  along  the  route,  and  the 
articles  they  were  instructed  to  carry, — but  here 
again  the  veil  can  be  no  further  lifted.     It  was  a 


16  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

thoughtful  provost,  and  the  act  was  dictated  by  a 
nice  consideration — and  there  let  it  rest :  the  six- 
teenth century  is  nearly  four  centuries  old. 

This  famous  sixteenth  century  was,  nevertheless, 
one  of  the  most  distressing  in  the  chequered  history 
of  Paris.  There  is  a  library  of  volumes  on  the  new 
birth  of  art  and  letters  in  this  era,  but  throughout 
it  all  Paris  was  struggling  against  epidemic  sick- 
ness, and  the  town  was  poisoned  and  poisonous  in 
every  quarter.  The  plague,  scotched  for  a  season, 
broke  out  afresh.  In  1546,  Parliament  ordered  a 
'general  procession'  to  'entreat  heaven'  to  stay 
the  calamity;  in  1562,  there  were  deaths  to  the 
number  of  twenty-five  thousand;  in  1569,  the  priests 
would  no  longer  bury  the  dead,  and  could  scarcely 
be  hired  to  administer  the  last  sacrament  to  the 
dying ;  in  1580,  the  hospitals  could  not  find  beds 
enough  for  the  sick ;  and  in  1596,  Parliament  sus- 
pended its  sittings,  because  everyone  who  could  do 
so  must  get  outside  the  plague-line. 

We  have  next  to  consider  briefly  another  terrible 
factor  in  the  production  of  this  monotonous  succes- 
sion of  epidemics :  I  mean,  the  customs  of  burial. 
The  doctors  of  Paris  (of  whom,  by  the  way,  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  there  were  not 
above  seventy  for  the  incessant  needs  of  the  whole 
population),  for  all  their  pedantry,  their  rooted  faith 


A   NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  17 

in  classicism,  and  the  changeless  conservatism  of 
their  methods,  were  neither  ignorant  of  nor  indiffer- 
ent to  the  perennial  dangers  of  the  city  ;  and  from 
time  to  time  they  raised  a  voice  of  warning  or  of 
protest. 

But  the  grave  question  of  inhumation,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  public  health,  was  scarcely 
considered  by  them,  and  there  seems  to  have  been 
almost  no  legislation  on  the  subject.  The  dead 
were  buried,  in  consequence,  wherever  it  pleased 
the  survivors  to  lay  them.  If  you  had  a  bit  of 
garden  or  a  courtyard  attached  to  your  house,  you 
might  make  that  your  private  burial-ground  ;  if  you 
had  none,  you  might  dig  up  six  feet  of  the  public 
thoroughfare  ;  or,  if  it  were  a  better  solace  to  give 
your  dead  the  shelter  of  the  dwelling  he  had  been 
used  to,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  you  from  be- 
stowing him  in  the  cellar.  The  era  of  burial  in 
churches  or  in  cemeteries  proper  came  with  the 
finding  or  the  re-discovery  of  a  treatise  by  St. 
Augustine,  in  which  the  father  maintained  that  the 
dead  derived  much  satisfaction  and  benefit  from 
interment  in  the  shadow  of  some  sacred  building,  or 
in  the  near  neighbourhood  of  bones  renowned  for 
their  sanctity.  Hereupon,  everyone  sought  to  be 
buried,  if  not  beneath  the  flagstones  of  his  favourite 
church,  at  least  within  its  pious  umbra ;  and  so  the 
I  C 


18  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

cemetery  grew  up  around  the  more  famous  temples 
of  Paris. 

But  since  all  of  these  could  not,  by  reason  of  their 
situation,  give  this  enlargement  to  their  borders, 
there  was  established  gradually  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  Seine  (the  site  of  which  is  at  present  occu- 
pied by  the  Square  of  the  Innocents)  an  immense 
necropolis,  which  was  shared  by  several  parishes. 
The  vicinity  of  this  Cemetery  of  the  Innocents  be- 
came in  time,  as  may  be  imagined,  one  of  the  most 
pestilential  spots  in  Paris.  Houses  were  built  around 
it,  and  immediately  overlooking  it,  which,  in  any 
season  of  epidemic  sickness,  were  invariably  the 
first  to  be  attacked.  The  authorities,  with  com- 
mendable prudence,  had  endeavoured  from  the  first 
to  isolate  this  natural  plague-spot,  placing  it  beyond 
the  walls  of  Paris  ;  but  Paris  was  perpetually  over- 
stepping its  walls  towards  every  point  of  the  com- 
pass, and  the  huge  cemetery  was  soon  hemmed  in, 
to  the  permanent  danger  and  constant  suffering  of 
the  whole  community. 


II. 


The  seventeenth  century  dawns,  and  the  situation 
is  scarcely  one  whit  better.  At  this  date  the  doctors 
and  the  police  were  united  in  the  interests  of  what 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  19 

was  then  regarded  as  sanitary  science,  but  with  the 
cessation  of  the  plague  at  any  moment  the  common 
6ense  of  danger  ceased  also,  and  from  king  to  sei- 
gneur, from  bishop  to  parish  priest,  from  inspector 
of  highways  to  the  licensed  man  with  the  muck- 
rake, no  one  would  assist.  More  than  this,  everyone 
was  in  opposition.  Paris  flatly  objected  to  all  pro- 
posals, all  ordinances  that  made  for  cleanliness,  and 
as  a  proper  consequence  Paris  continued  to  be  the 
favourite  abode  of  the  plague.  Charles  de  Lorine, 
physician  to  Louis  XITL,  invented  a  costume  in 
which  to  visit  patients  whose  condition  he  suspected, 
and  might  have  been  seen  ambling  through  the 
streets  on  his  mule  wrapped  in  an  overcoat  of 
morocco  leather,  beneath  which  was  a  gown  steeped 
in  chemicals,  great  spectacles  on  his  nose,  a  clove  of 
garlic  in  his  mouth,  rue  in  his  nostrils,  and  incense 
in  his  ears. 

As  for  leprosy,  all  cure  of  that  had  been  despaired 
of,  and  the  efforts  of  the  State  were  confined  to 
isolating  the  unhappy  leper.  The  dread  ceremony, 
with  its  solemn  elaboration  of  detail,  which  attended 
the  decree  of  perpetual  seclusion,  was  profoundly 
characteristic  of  the  age.  Considered  and  pronounced 
to  be  dead  henceforth  to  the  world,  it  was  not  un- 
usual, and  in  some  parishes  it  was  the  uniform  prac- 

C2 


20  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

tice,  to  rehearse  over  the  living  leper  the   actual 
service  of  sepulture. 

Persons  suspected  of  the  disease  were  first  sum- 
moned before  a  priestly  tribunal,  and  then  sent  for 
examination  by  two  or  more  surgeons.  If  the  sur- 
geons declared  it  leprosy,  the  decree  of  separation 
was  pronounced,  and  read  in  the  parish  church.  On 
the  Sunday  following,  the  leper  was  fetched  from 
his  dwelling  by  a  deputation  of  priests,  laid  on  a 
bier  and  covered  over  with  a  black  cloth,  and  borne 
in  this  manner  to  the  church,  the  priests  chanting 
the  Libera  me.  In  the  church  the  bier  was  placed 
upon  trestles,  and  the  leper  lay  there  and  listened  to 
his  funeral  service ;  after  which  the  congregation 
passed  before  him  sprinkling  him  with  holy  water, 
and  each  bestowed  on  him  an  alms.  The  office  of 
the  dead  being  completed,  another  funeral  proces- 
sion was  formed,  and  with  the  cross  going  on  in 
front  the  leper  was  carried  to  the  hovel  where  he 
must  live,  untended  and  unvisited,  till  the  worm 
claimed  him.  Gloves,  clappers,  and  a  bread-bowl 
were  given  him  by  the  priest,  who  cast  over  the  hut 
a  handful  of  earth  from  the  cemetery,  and  the  De 
profundis  was  sung. 

'  Dead  to  the  world,  be  thou  alive  again  to  God  !* 
said  the  priest. 

Then,  bidding  him  remember  that  the   church 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  21 

would  be  ever  mindful  of  him  in  her  prayers,  the 
priest  went  on  to  pronounce  sentence  of  de- 
privation : — 

'  I  forbid  thee  to  enter  any  church  or  monastery, 
any  mill,  bake-house,  or  market,  or  any  place  in 
which  there  is  a  concourse  of  people. 

1 1  forbid  thee  to  walk  with  naked  feet,  or  to  go 
out  of  thy  dwelling  without  thy  leper's  garment  and 
thy  clappers. 

'  I  forbid  thee  to  wash  either  thyself  or  anything 
thou  hast  in  any  river,  stream,  or  fountain.  What 
water  thou  needest,  fill  it  into  thy  barrel  with  a 
bowl. 

•  I  forbid  thee  to  touch  anything  thou  art  bargain- 
ing for  until  thou  hast  bought  it. 

'  I  forbid  thee  to  enter  any  tavern. 

1 1  forbid  thee,  if  thou  art  spoken  to  in  the  streets, 
to  make  any  answer  until  thou  hast  observed  the 
direction  of  the  wind. 

•  I  forbid  thee  to  walk  in  narrow  streets. 

•  I  forbid  thee  to  touch  the  well  or  the  cord  of  the 
well  with  ungloved  hands. 

'I  forbid  thee  to  touch  or  to  give  anything  to 
children. 

'  I  forbid  thee  to  eat  or  drink  in  any  company  save 
that  of  lepers  like  thyself. 

1  And  I  bid  thee  know  that  when  thou  diest  thy 


22  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

body  shall  be  buried  in  this  cabin,  and  not  in  holy 
ground.' 

This  tremendous  sentence  being  uttered,  the  priest 
planted  a  wooden  cross  before  the  door  and  hung  on 
it  a  box  for  alms ;  and  the  leper  was  left  alone. 

Persons  afflicted  with  leprosy  in  districts  which 
had  a  leper-hospital  were  sent  there.  The  principal 
lazar-house  in  Paris  was  St.  Lazare,  which  was  sup- 
plied with  bread  gratuitously  by  the  bakers  of  the 
town,  a  class  who  were  regarded  as  peculiarly  liable 
to  contract  the  disease.  The  great  and  good  Am- 
broise  Pare,  the  father  of  medicine  in  France,  ad- 
mitting that  the  health  of  the  community  required 
the  enforced  seclusion  of  the  leper,  adds  this  of 
Christian  charity :  '  But  when  they  must  be  set  apart 
from  us,  I  would  have  them  removed  with  all  kind- 
ness and  gentleness,  bearing  in  mind  that  they  are 
of  one  flesh  with  us.  For,  did  it  please  God,  we 
should  ourselves  be  smitten  even  as  they  are — nay,  it 
might  be  yet  more  grievously.  It  behoves  us,  more- 
over, to  admonish  them  that,  being  cast  out  from 
the  world,  they  cease  not  to  be  loved  by  Him,  whiles 
they  bear  their  cross  in  patience.'* 

*  '  Je  conseille  que  lorsqu'on  les  voudra  separer,  on  le  face  le 
plus  doucement  et  aimablement  qu'il  sera  possible,  ayant  memoire 
qu'ils  sonfc  semblables  a  nous :  oil  il  plairoit  a  Dieu,  nous  serions 
touchez  de  semblable  maladie,  voire  encore  plus  griefve.     Et  les 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  23 

For  the  inmates  of  St.  Lazare  there  was  no  release 
till  death,  though  in  the  earlier  stages  of  the  dis- 
ease they  were  allowed  to  beg  through  the  streets, 
shaking  their  rattles  ceaselessly,  to  let  the  untainted 
flee  before  them.  Incredible  as  it  sounds  (at  least, 
to  all  unacquainted  with  the  wiles  and  the  bestial 
habits  of  the  beggars  of  old  Paris),  there  were  vaga- 
bonds who  feigned  leprosy  to  procure  admission  to 
some  lazar-house,  where  they  might  live  and  be 
fed  in  idleness, — though  leprosy  itself  was  their 
ultimate  and  certain  penalty. 

Before  the  true  nature  of  the  disease  was  known, 
and  therefore,  of  course,  before  the  true  remedy 
could  be  found,  leprosy  had  mysteriously  vanished 
out  of  France.  It  was  rare  during  the  first  half  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  and  during  the  second 
half  it  disappeared.  Its  disappearance  owed  nothing, 
assuredly,  to  any  transmutation  of  the  streets  of 
Paris.  In  1650,  their  hygienic  state  was  very  much 
what  it  had  been  two  centuries  earlier.  A  certain 
De  Beaulieu,  instructed  to  visit  the  town  street  by 
street,  and  report  on  its  condition,  presented  a 
statement  which  is  quite  monotonous  in  its  itera- 
tion of  the  sores  and  blotches  of  the  Paris  of  the 

faut  admonester  que,  combien  qu'ils  soient  separez  du  monde, 
toute8foi8  ils  sont  aimez  de  Dieu,  en  portans  patiemment  leur 
croix.' 


24  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

seventeenth  century, — almost  precisely  the  same  as 
those  which  Victor  Hugo's  rhetoric  has  so  skilfully 
overlaid  in  the  Paris  of  Louis  XI. 

In  this  seventeenth  century  Paris  began  really  to 
look  like  a  great  capital,  yet  the  Parisians  were 
still  fighting  their  best  to  make  it  a  place  scarcely 
possible  to  live  in ;  and  with  [its  four-and-twenty 
sewers,  its  gutters,  dammed  at  intervals  with  refuse 
which  the  water  could  not  carry ;  its  river,  polluted 
through  and  through ;  its  butchers'  shops,  of  which 
front  and  back  were  alike  strewn  and  heaped  with 
offal ;  and  its  quite  unmentionable  trenches  for  the 
public  convenience,  the  chief  town  of  France  was 
in  this  well-graced  era  the  most  pestiferous,  and  in 
its  daily  aspects  the  most  unsightly,  in  Europe.  It 
is  the  town  of  which,  at  this  date  precisely, 
Corneille  sang  as  '  une  ile  enchantee,' — in  a  play  to 
which  it  seems  ungallant  to  add  that  he  gave  the 
name  of  '  The  Liar.' 

One  may  regret,  in  the  retrospective  interests  of 
the  health  of  Paris,  that  Louis  XIV.  had  so  little 
affection  for  his  capital.  He  preferred  to  live  out  of 
it  (which  is  not  wonderful)  ;  but  if  someone  with 
the  privilege  of  the  royal  ear  had  shown  him  the 
way  to  live  comfortably  and  elegantly  in  it,  Paris 
would  have  been  both  clean  and.  beautiful  in  that 
imposing   reign.    If,  for  example,  as  Voltaire   has 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  25 

said,  Louis  XIV.  had  employed  in  finishing  and 
embellishing  the  Louvre  the  extravagant  sums  he 
laid  out  upon  the  useless  aqueducts  of  Maintenon ; 
if  he  had  expended  upon  his  capital  the  fifth  portion 
of  what  it  cost  him  to  force  nature  at  Versailles,  he 
might  have  transformed  Paris  into  a  monument  to 
his  name  and  genius  more  enduring  than  any  which 
history  has  succeeded  in  raising  to  them. 

Nevertheless,  during  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV., 
Paris  was  growing  worthier  of  its  renown  among 
the  capitals  of  Europe.  This  was  owing  principally 
to  the  efforts  of  an  intelligent  chief  of  police,  La 
Reynie,  who,  in  spite  of  the  unfailing  opposition  of 
the  nobles  and  ill-will  of  the  bourgeoisie,  effected 
changes  innumerable.  He  fetched  stone  by  water 
from  Fontainebleau  and  compelled  the  householders 
to  do  their  share  of  paving.  He  set  up  fountains 
and  built  new  quays  along  the  Seine.  He  threw 
down  the  slovenly  booths  in  the  principal  streets 
and  banished  from  them  the  more  disreputable  class 
of  hawkers.  He  suppressed  the  sloping  projections 
of  the  shops  and  curtailed  the  ridiculous  dimensions 
of  their  signboards.  He  drew  out  new  plans  for 
building  and  allowed  no  houses  to  be  raised  above 
a  certain  height. 

Voltaire,  in  his  ■  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV.,'  says  that 
the  Paris  of  this  era  (which  contained  about  half  a 


26  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

million  inhabitants)  was  'embellished  with  a  thousand 
splendid  and  commodious  edifices/  but  M.  Franklin, 
a  safer  guide  in  such  a  matter,  maintains  that  in 
reality  they  were  neither  splendid  nor  commodious, 
exoeption  being  made  in  favour  of  ■  certain  palaces 
and  certain  sumptuous  residences.'  The  absolutism 
of  Louis  XIV.  and  his  passion  for  regularity  and 
symmetry  were  reflected  even  in  the  architecture  of 
private  dwellings  of  the  period,  which,  in  M. 
Franklin's  estimate,  'lost  all  individual  character.' 
Rooms  in  houses  of  the  upper  classes  were,  however, 
large  and  lofty,  and  during  the  summer  months  both 
pleasant  and  salubrious. 

The  vigilant  La  Reynie  and  his  men  carried  their 
raid  into  every  quarter  of  the  town,  and  bagged  on 
one  occasion  no  less  important  a  victim  than 
Corneille  himself,  who,  while  composing  the  praises 
of  the  'ile  enchantee,'  had  neglected  to  keep  his 
doorstep  clean.  Things  were  coming  to  a  pass  in 
Paris  when  a  tragic  poet  must  break  off  in  a  verse 
to  look  to  the  state  of  his  door-step.  It  was  La 
Reynie,  in  a  word,  (on  the  satisfactory  showing  of 
M.  Franklin,)  who  began  to  remove  from  Paris  the 
reproach  under  which  it  had  lain  for  centuries  as 
'  un  cloaque  infect  et  malsain.' 

Still,  it  was  better  as  yet  only  by  comparison 
with  what  had  been.     The  tour  of  Paris  could  not 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  27 

have  been  made  with  any  degree  of  comfort  during 
any  year  of  the  great  Louis'  reign,  which  was  not 
ended  until  1715.  The  mud  remained  to  defy  the 
efforts  of  La  Reynie.  This  mud  of  Paris  was  of  a 
most  ancient  and  abhorred  celebrity,  as  history, 
satire,  and  fable  will  declare.  Montaigne,  who  ex- 
claims against  its  *  bitter  odour,'  is  surpassed  on  the 
same  subject  by  Boileau,  to  whose  sixteenth  century 
satire  (composed  towards  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century)  the  reader  may  refer.  Its  odour,  moreover, 
was  not  its  sole  distinction.  'It  sticks  like  Paris 
mud '  was  a  proverb  of  a  high  antiquity,  and  current 
after  the  beginning  of  this  century.  If  your  clothes 
were  stained  with  it  you  must,  they  said,  cut  the 
piece  out ;  ■  it  burns  whatever  it  touches.' 

La  Reynie  did  not  despair  of  ridding  the  town  of 
mud,  but  he  failed  to  cure  the  Paris  chambermaid 
of  her  inveterate  habit  of  sousing  pedestrians  with 
the  contents  of  her  pail.  The  practice  was  as  old 
as  blood-letting  or  bell-ringing,  and,  being  universal 
in  the  town,  it  contributed  in  an  eminent  degree  to 
the  perils  of  every  street  at  every  hour  of  the  day. 
'  Gare  lean! — 'Ware  water!'  was  the  cry,  and  up 
went  the  window-sash.  If  you  were  passing  at  the 
moment,  your  only  chance  was  to  spring  to  the  wall, 
pin  your  back  against  it,  and  wait  until  the  aro- 
matic flood  had  fallen.     No  one  abroad  was  safe,  for 


28  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

on  this  side  or  on  that  the  deluge  was  incessant,  and 
as  the  '  sacramental  words '  were  uttered,  the  pail 
distilled.  How  many  gallants  of  old  Paris,  setting 
out  in  their  bravest  to  visit  or  to  serenade  a  mis- 
tress, went  home  again  unsatisfied  and  soaked !  In 
Scarrons  'Don  Japhet  d'Armenie,'  Japhet  is  in  a 
reverie  under  the  balcony  of  his  lady  when — 

Une  Duegne  ...  La  nuit  est  fort  obscure. 

Gare  l'eau ! 
Don  Japhet    Gare  l'eau !     Bon  Dieu,  la  pourriture  ! 

Ce  dernier  accident  ne  promet  rien  de  bon. 

La  Duegne     Gare  l'eau ! 

Don  Japhet    La  diablesse  a  redouble  la  dose. 

Execrable  guenon,  si  c'estoit  de  l'eau  rose 

On  la  pourroit  souffrir  par  la  grand  froid  qu'il 

fait, 
Mais  je  suis  tout  couvert  de  ton  deluge  infect. 

The  Leandre  of  Moliere's  '  L'Etourdi '  gets  the 
same  benison  from  Trufaldin,  as  he  is  preparing  to 
carry  off  Celie.  It  is  much  to  a  nation's  advantage 
to  have  the  trick  of  discovering  a  jest  in  the  little 
infelicities  of  life,  and  this  advantage  the  French 
have  possessed  over  most  of  the  nations  of  Europe. 
Indeed,  did  not  they  turn  the  guillotine  of  Dr. 
Guillotin  into  very  decent  comic  verse?  On  the 
other  hand,  their  acquiescence  in  the  pail  is  signifi- 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  29 

cant  in  a  manner.  It  was  a  public  nuisance  which 
the  public  voice  might  at  any  time  have  suppressed, 
but  it  went  unchecked  for  hundreds  of  years.  If  a 
custom  were  tolerated  which  must  have  ruined 
more  suits  of  clothes  in  Paris  than  any  war  which 
France  had  ever  undertaken,  is  it  surprising  that 
the  science  and  practice  of  hygiene  progressed  so 
slowly  ?  It  was  annoying  to  be  perpetually  on  the 
alert  for  the  '  Gave  VeauV  of  the  chambermaid,  the 
duenna,  or  the  suspicious  father ;  but  the  average 
citizen  perceived  nothing  offensive,  either  to  morals 
or  to  health,  in  the  use  of  the  window  as  a  common 
sink.  It  is  an  illustration  of  the  perfect  insouciance 
of  Paris  upon  the  whole  question ;  and  La  Reynie, 
much  as  he  effected  in  matters  not  of  the  greatest, 
was  fishing  in  the  air. 

Chief  of  police  as  he  was,  he  could  not  keep  the 
approaches  to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  or  Law  Courts, 
free  from  those  feculent  encumbrances  which  a 
commissioner  of  sewers,  in  a  private  report,  finds  it 
difficult  to  describe  in  decent  language ;  and  he 
could  do  little  more  for  the  royal  residences  of  Paris 
and  the  suburbs.  The  Louvre,  in  its  courts,  its 
corridors,  and  its  stairways,  '  presents  a  hideous 
spectacle,'  and  '  il  en  ctait  de  meme,'  says  M.  Frank- 
lin, 'dans  les  chateaux  de  St.  Germain,  de  Vincennes, 
et  de  Fontainebleau.'    In  respect  of  Fontainebleau, 


30  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

he  makes  allusion  to  a  letter  of  the  Princess  Palatine 
to  the  Electress  of  Hanover,  of  which  he  says,  *  It 
would  be  impossible  to  quote  one  single  line.'  At 
about  the  same  date,  which  brings  the  seventeenth 
century  to  a  close,  there  is  a  long  and  detailed  re- 
port to  Louis  XIV.  upon  the  condition  of  the  Louvre, 
which,  if  it  could  be  imagined  as  written  at  this  day 
of  Buckingham  Palace  or  Windsor  Castle,  would 
keep  the  newspaper  press  in  head-lines  for  a  month. 
The  object  of  the  writer  was  very  humbly  to  suggest 
to  the  king  a  contrivance  such  as  no  builder  at  the 
present  day  would  omit  from  a  labourer's  cottage. 
The  fate  of  the  report,  whether  or  no  it  were  ever 
Acted  upon,  is  not  known. 

The  eighteenth  century  is  in  its  nineteenth  year, 
^r  when  the  Princess  Palatine,  a  correspondent  whose 
pen  knows  nothing  of  embarrassment,  in  another 
letter  on  the  state  of  Paris,  describes  it  as  a  'horrible 
place ;  stifling  hot,  and  such  a  stench  !  The  smell 
•of  the  streets  is  all  but  insupportable,  and  what 
with  this  and  the  frightful  heat,  all  the  meat  and  fish 
are  going  bad.'  The  rest  of  the  letter  must  be  read 
in  the  French.  The  Princess,  going  in  her  chariot, 
would  be  safe  from  the  chambermaid's  salvo,  but 
that  was  as  effective  as  ever  upon  the  unprotected. 
Let  Le   Sage  follow  Scarron  and  Moliere,  for  the 


A   NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  31 

Madrid  of  'Gil  Bias'  is  Paris  in  the  eighteenth 
century. 

1 1  could  not  leave  the  house  before  night,'  (says 
the  hero,)  '  which,  for  my  sins,  -was  extremely  dark  ; 
and  as  I  groped  along  the  street,  and  had  got  about 
half  way  to  the  place  of  rendezvous,  I  was  crowned, 
from  the  window,  with  the  contents  of  a  perfuming- 
pan,  that  did  not  at  all  delight  my  sense  of  smell ; 
though  I  may  safely  say  I  lost  none  of  it,  so  exactly 
was  I  equipped.' 

This  was  written  about  1715.  If  a  gentleman 
were  accompanied  in  the  street  by  a  lady,  he  must 
always  yield  her  the  haut  du  pave,  the  side  bordering 
the  houses,  where,  by  shaving  the  wall,  she  might 
perhaps  escape.  In  itself,  however,  the  liaut  du  pavS 
was  not  nice  walking,  for  reasons  which  may  be 
found  rather  nakedly  stated  in  Sterne's  '  Sentimental 
Journey.' 

The  scavenger's  cart  was  another  of  the  trials  of 
the  street.  Swaying  from  side  to  side  through  those 
uneven  lanes — man,  horse,  and  cart  as  black  as  the 
liquid  contents  of  the  tumbril — it  distributed  in 
detail,  says  Franklin,  what  it  had  gathered  in  the 
gross ;  and  woe  to  any  who  were  passing  when  it 
lodged  in  a  rut.  The  increase  in  traffic  of  all  kinds 
had  greatly  enhanced  the  discomforts  of  the  streets, 
most  of  which  were  still  as  narrow  as  in  the  fifteenth 


32  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

century,  and  all  of  which  were  without  footways. 
The  footway  or  sidewalk,  an  English  importation, 
was  not  constructed  in  Paris  until  within  a  few 
years  of  the  Revolution,  and  even  under  the  first 
Empire  it  was  quite  a  rare  convenience. 

The  state  of  the  Seine,  impregnated  with  the 
varied  detritus  it  received,  was  as  bad  as  it  had  ever 
been  ;  yet  the  water-carriers  continued  to  draw  from 
it  the  drinking-water  of  Paris.  The  supply  brought 
into  the  town  by  the  three  or  four  aqueducts  gave 
to  each  individual  scarcely  more  than  two  quarts  a 
day. 

The  soil  of  the  churches  was  literally  sown  with 
corpses,  and  the  dead  in  the  cemeteries  lay  in 
swathes. 

The  hospitals,  'sinister  asylums,  loathed  and 
dreaded  by  the  people,'  were  perhaps,  of  all  institu- 
tions in  the  town,  the  most  insanitary  and  the  most 
abominable.  Voltaire,  writing  from  Ferney  to  Dr. 
Paulet  on  the  condition  of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  says  : — 
'  You  have  in  Paris  a  H6tel-Dieu  where  eternal  con- 
tagion reigns,  where  the  sick,  heaped  all  together, 
received  from  and  inflict  on  one  another  reciprocal 
disease  and  death.  You  have  slaughter-houses  in 
back  streets  with  no  issue,  which  give  out  in  summer 
a  cadaverous  odour  capable  of  poisoning  an  entire 
quarter.  The  exhalations  of  the  dead  slay  the  living 


A  NEW  PICTURE  OF  OLD  PARIS  83 

in  your  churches,  and  the  charnel-yard  of  the  Inno- 
cents is  a  witness  at  this  day  of  a  degree  of  barbarism 
that  degrades  us  below  the  Hottentot  and  the  negro.' 
Lest  this  should  seem  in  any  way  exaggerated,  let 
me  hasten  to  add  that  it  is  far  outstripped  by  the 
horrors  revealed  in  the  exhaustive  report  of  Tenon 
on  the  H6tel-Dieu,  which  was  printed  in  1788,  par 
ordre  du  roi. 


u 


THE    TOILET 

i. 

The  early  Church,  surveying  the  fruits  of  Paganism, 
found  that  washing  did  not  make  for  sanctity.  The 
luxurious  Roman,  with  his  luxurious  baths  and  highly 
scientific  ablutions,  was  never  an  ideal  of  the  monk ; 
and,  since  the  splendid  Thermse  were  a  principal 
expression  of  the  refined  sensuality  of  the  age,  the 
Church,  which  was  seldom  too  well  served  by  its 
logicians,  passed  easily  to  the  conclusion  that  wash- 
ing was  a  snare  of  Sathanus.  Hence  its  peculiar 
attitude  on  the  subject  of  personal  cleanliness.  With 
the  contempt  of  cleanliness  was  associated  an  equal 
contempt  of  the  body,  and  these  sentiments,  allied 
to  a  fanatical  and  almost  ferocious  veneration  of 
virginity,  produced  in  time  such  repulsive  types  of 
the  devotee  as  St.  Abraham  the  hermit,  who,  living 
for  fifty  years  after  his  conversion,  rigidly  refused 


THE  TOILET  85 

from  that  date,  says  Mr.  Lecky,*  to  wash  either  his 
face  or  his  feet ;  the  famous  virgin,  Silvia,  who  de- 
clined, '  on  religious  principles,  to  wash  any  part  of 
her  body  except  her  fingers ;'  St.  Macarius  of  Alexan- 
dria, who  '  slept  in  a  marsh,  and  exposed  his  naked 
body  to  the  stings  of  venomous  flies ;'  St.  Ammon, 
who  '  had  never  seen  himself  naked ;'  St.  Simeon 
Stylites,  who  stood  upon  one  leg  for  a  whole  year, 
the  other  leg  being  '  covered  with  hideous  ulcers  ;' 
and  the  one  hundred  and  thirty  nuns  of  St. 
Euphraxia's  convent,  who  '  shuddered  at  the  mention 
of  a  bath.' 

These  terrible  models  of  religion  continued  in 
honour  through  all  the  feudal  ages,  when  (to  quote 
Mr.  Lecky  again)  '  the  cleanliness  of  the  body  was 
regarded  as  a  pollution  of  the  soul,  and  the  saints 
who  were  most  admired  had  become  one  hideous 
mass  of  clotted  filth.' 

The  ideal  of  the  Church  in  mediaeval  France  was 
not  quite  so  deplorable  as  this,  but  it  was  bad 
enough  ;  in  all  cloisters,  says  M.  Franklin,  cleanliness 
was  considered  'a  dangerous  practice,  a  culpable 
vanity,  a  sin ;'  and,  as  a  very  natural  consequence, 
the  monk  was  seldom  in  the  tub.  He  had  little  option 
in  the  matter,  for  the  rule  in  most  monasteries  was, 

* '  History  of  European  Morals.' 

d2 


36  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

two  baths  a  year :  at  Christmas  and  at  Easter.  St. 
Benoit's  canon  on  the  subject  (and  he  was  held  for 
a  Radical)  was,  that  '  baths  are  permitted  to  the  sick 
as  often  as  their  sickness  requires ;  but  among  the 
healthy,  and,  above  all,  among  the  young  and  vigor- 
ous, they  are  to  be  used  very  sparingly.'  The  rule 
was  framed,  not  for  the  general  community,  but  for 
the  monks.  A  commentator  of  some  distinction  in 
his  day,  Dom  Calmet,  discusses  it  from  a  philosophic 
standpoint,  on  the  ground  that  it  would  have  been 
1  cruel '  to  refuse  the  monks  one  bath  or  two  baths 
in  the  year.  He  says,  in  effect,  a  bath  now  and  then 
was  really  necessary  to  them,  inasmuch  as,  wearing 
no  linen,  sleeping  in  their  woollen  habits,  and  chang- 
ing them  '  peu  souvent,'  they  were  '  apt  to  contract 
a  good  deal  of  dirt,'  which  was  not  only  '  highly  in- 
convenient to  the  individual,'  (*  tres-incommode  aux 
particuliers,')  but  '  particularly  unpleasant  to  the 
persons  he  mixed  with.'  In  Dom  Calmet's  day  an 
important  concession  had  been  obtained.  The  wool- 
len shirt  had  been  replaced  by  a  shirt  of  serge,  which 
was  sent  to  the  laundry  once  a  fortnight.  The 
wearer,  however,  was  still  restricted  to  his  two  visits 
in  the  year. 

The  monks,  it  seems,  were  at  no  pains  to  infringe 
their  regulations ;  and  if  a  sense  of  duty  counselled 
a  brother  to  forego  his  cleansing  at  Christmas  or  at 


THE  TOILET  37 

Easter,  it  was  still  counted  to  him  for  righteousness. 
The  two  baths  a  year  were  not  an  article  of  the 
faith,  but  a  concession  to  the  flesh. 

The  statutory  toilet  of  the  monastery  was  like 
the  ablutions  of  a  tourist  who  slips  out  of  the  night- 
express  at  sunrise  for  a  dash  of  water  at  the  tap  of  a 
wayside  station.  The  rule  of  Cluni  ordered  the 
monks  to  assemble  in  the  cloisters,  where  three 
towels  were  reserved  for  their  use  ;  one  for  the  nov- 
ices, another  for  those  who  had  taken  the  vows,  and 
the  third  for  the  lay  brethren.  Whether  the  Bene- 
dictines were  specially  favoured  I  cannot  say,  but 
Dom  Calmet  observes  that '  Each  had  his  comb ;'  and 
adds,  '  they  combed  themselves,  and  washed  their 
heads  and  faces  with  some  frequency.'  In  another 
passage  the  commentator  is  more  explicit :  the 
monks  who  shaved  the  head,  leaving  only  a  narrow 
circle  of  hair,  washed  their  heads  '  every  Saturday.' 
The  superior  clergy,  including  the  bishops,  were  so 
little  to  be  trusted  in  the  matter  of  personal  propriety 
that  it  was  necessary  to  instruct  them  to  use  the 
comb  before  they  ascended  the  altar. 

The  case  was  no  better  in  the  convents.  No  nun 
of  the  middle  ages,  revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon,  would  recognise  the  fair  and  cleanly  penitents 
who  haunt  the  pages  of  romance.  She  would  say 
severely :     '  They  are  too  much  washed.'     For  the 


88  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

devout  sister,  cherishing  her  vows,  frowned  on  the 
tub,  and  lightly  laid  to  her  face  the  moistened 
corner  of  a  towel.  It  is  certain,  none  the  less,  that 
at  one  period  her  cheeks  were  not  innocent  of  rouge, 
and  that  the  employment  of  the  patch  was  designed 
to  lend  the  skin  a  whiteness  which  it  had  not  owed 
to  soap  and  water.  Perhaps  the  nun  of  fiction  is  the 
nicer  of  the  two.  She,  at  least,  was  never  known  to 
rouge  herself,  and  the  novelist  would  be  flouted  who 
presented  her  with  patches. 

As  late  as  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
the  Duchesse  de  Mazarin,  withdrawn  among  the 
Visitandines  of  the  Rue  Saint  Antoine,  sought  leave 
one  day  for  a  foot-bath.  The  whole  convent,  says 
M.  Franklin,  was  struck  with  consternation  ('  la  mai- 
son  entiere  s'en  emut,')  and  '  the  indiscretion  of  the 
duchess '  was  tartly  reproved.  Madame  neverthe- 
less insisted  on  her  foot-bath,  if  the  convent  should 
drown  for  it ;  which  result,  it  seems,  was  narrowly 
avoided,  for  she  filled  to  overflowing  '  un  grand 
coflfre '  in  the  dormitory,  and  '  tout  cela  finit  par  une 
inondation  generale.'  The  Duchesse's  foot-bath 
long  remained  a  painful  tradition  of  the  Visitandines. 

Quitting  the  dusky  and  malodorous  seats  of  religion, 
it  is  agreeable  to  note  that  where  piety  was  less  pro- 
nounced washing  was  much  more  plentiful.  The  mid- 
dle ages  in  France  were  cleaner  on  the  whole  than  has 


THE  TOILET  89 

been  supposed.  Two  baths  a  year,  with  an  occasional 
lapse  into  the  foot-bath,  might  be  the  regimen  of 
the  saints  in  cloisters ;  but  beyond  the  pale  of  the 
Church,  rancidity  was  not  associated  with  regenera- 
tion. Dulaure,  among  the  historians  of  Paris,  states 
that  there  were  baths  in  almost  every  street.  M. 
Franklin  shows  that  they  were,  at  all  events,  scatter- 
ed up  and  down  the  town  in  considerable  numbers ; 
a  proof  in  itself  that  they  were  places  of  popular 
resort.  The  cold  bath  (with  which  the  Roman  al- 
ways finished  his  nice  ablutions)  was  not  in  great 
esteem,  although  baths  in  the  Seine  were  arranged 
for  both  sexes.  The  hot  bath  and  the  vapour  bath, 
on  the  other  hand,  were  in  demand  at  all  hours  of 
the  day  and  night,  and  it  was  usual  to  cry  them  in 
the  streets  at  or  before  sunrise.  So  general,  indeed, 
was  the  habit  of  frequenting  the  Stuves,  that  the 
authorities  took  precautions  to  prevent  them  from  be- 
ing closed  in  seasons  when  fuel  was  scarce,  and  to 
this  end  the  prices  of  admission  were  raised  in  the 
pinch  of  winter.  The  baths  were  shut  only  on 
Sundays  and  holidays.  Persons  preparing  for  a 
journey  were  accustomed  to  sleep  at  the  dtuve  the 
night  before  they  started,  and  thither  also  would 
the  voyager  repair  on  his  return  to  Paris. 

So  far  as  concerned  the  caro  of  the  body,  all  this 
was  an  excellent  example  to  the  swinish  monks :  mi- 


40  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

fortunately,  quite  early  in  its  history,  the  bath  be- 
gan to  be  reputed  a  place  where  more  care  was 
given  to  the  persons  than  to  the  morals  of  its  pa- 
trons. The  bath-keepers  were  instructed  to  choose 
among  their  fraternity  '  three  prudent  men '  who 
would  take  an  oath  before  the  provost  to  denounce 
any  establishment  of  notorious  ill-fame,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  was  sought  to  restrain  customers  of 
either  sex  from  visiting  the  baths  after  a  certain 
hour  of  the  evening;  but  once  the  name  of  the 
4tuve  was  tainted,  the  place  itself  seemed  eager  to 
live  up  to,  or  down  to,  its  renown.  One  presumes  that 
there  were  exceptions  at  all  times,  and  that  the  client 
who  paid  his  franc  or  his  two  francs  with  a  simple 
view  to  washing  would  generally  know  what  door 
to  knock  at ;  but  the  truth  seems  to  be,  that  in  many 
if  not  in  most  of  these  houses,  the  bath  befriended 
the  assignation.  This  was  not  difficult  in  establish- 
ments which  were  open  to  the  reception  of  both 
sexes.  Bath  and  bagnio,  at  all  events,  came  to  have 
one  and  the  same  meaning ;  and  towards  the  six- 
teenth century  it  began  to  be  at  the  risk  of  reputa- 
tion that  one  stepped  from  home  to  be  cleansed.  It 
might  be  ventured  in  the  morning,  but  there  was  a 
hazard  in  it  after  curfew.  The  Church,  which  had 
established  long  ere  this  its  fixed  principle  of  the 
vanity  of  washing,  and  which  had  almost  made  it  a 


THE  TOILET  11 

canon  that  no  one  could  go  clean  into  Paradise,  was 
the  first  to  demand  the  closing  of  the  baths. 

They  were  never  closed,  however,  by  any  edict 
of  Church  or  State.  During  three  centuries,  from 
the  fourteenth  to  the  sixteenth,  they  were  main- 
tained by  the  middle-classes,  who  had  no  baths  in 
their  own  houses,  and  by  all  the  gallants  of  the 
town,  who  had  a  double  use  for  them.  But  in  the 
sixteenth  century  their  name  had  grown  too  bad  for 
the  support  of  either  order  ;  and  when  the  Huguenot 
clergy  had  joined  sides  with  the  priests,  and  from 
all  pulpits  they  were  denounced  as  '  places  of  per- 
dition,' they  began  at  last  to  lose  custom,  they  lost 
it  then  very  rapidly,  and  in  a  short  time  there  was 
scarcely  an  4tuve  in  Paris. 

What  the  purist  gained  here,  the  rest  of  society 
forfeited ;  for  when  the  habit  of  the  public  bath 
was  relinquished,  washing  went  out  of  fashion ;  and 
the  Church's  monoply  of  dirt  was  lost  to  it  for 
centuries. 

Alas  that  one  should  come  to  know  it !  queens, 
and  such  charming  ones,  were  no  nicer  in  their 
persons  than  less  interesting  folk.  I  blush  in  writing 
it,  but  Lamb's  observation — '  Martin,  if  dirt  were 
trumps,  what  hands  you  would  hold  !' — might  have 
been  addressed,  if  not  with  perfect  propriety,  at 
least  with  perfect  truth,  to  fair  and  witty  Margaret  of 


*2  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Navarre.     Nay,  it  is  her  Majesty  herself  who,  in  the 
frankest  way,  makes  the  avowal  to  her  lover. 

'  Look  at  these  lovely  hands  of  mine ;  they  have 
not  been  washed  for  eight  days,  yet  I  will  wager 
they  outshine  yours/ 

Not  a  notion  in  the  mind  of  either  that  there  was 
any  ugliness  in  hands  eight  days  unwashed,  but 
consider  what  it  meant ;  for  at  that  era  there  were 
no  forks  at  table,  and  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  ate 
with  their  fingers  ;  and  no  one  used  a  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, for  there  were  no  pocket-handkerchiefs  to 
use.  The  fork  was  not  of  universal  adoption  in  France 
until  the  eighteenth  century,  and  the  question  of 
the  pocket-handkerchief  was  not  completely  settled 
at  the  date  of  the  Revolution.  Manuals  of  behaviour 
were  at  pains  to  instruct  the  fashionable  that  they 
must  not  employ  as  a  handkerchief  the  hand  which 
was  placed  in  the  dish  at  table ;  the  use  of  the 
other  for  that  purpose  seems  to  have  been  unre- 
stricted. The  case  standing  thus,  what  must  the 
hands  have  resembled  which  had  gone  eight  days 
unwashed !  and  if  a  queen  as  charming,  as  elegant 
and  as  intelligent  as  Margaret  of  Navarre  were  so 
little  delicate,  how  was  it  with  the  rank  and  file  of 
society  ?  Perhaps  the  lesser  people  were  nicer  than 
their  betters,  for  crabbed  d'Aubign6,  in  a  passage 
in  the  '  Adventures  du  Baron  de  Fseneste,'  allows 


THE  TOILET  4$ 

the  reader  to  infer  that  a  noble  might  be  recognised 
not  more  by  his  attire  than  by  the  odour  he 
exhaled ! 

As  fashion  grew  more  elaborate,  personal  pro- 
priety suffered  greater  and  greater  violation.  When, 
for  example,  the  practice  of  powdering  the  hair  was 
adopted,  and  heads  were  washed  no  oftener  than 
before,  their  condition  went  beyond  description.  It 
must  suffice  to  say  that  the  fashion-books  of  the 
period  are  detailed  in  their  advice  as  to  the  best 
ways  of  stilling  or  killing  the  nameless  parasite 
(which  troubled  the  sleep  of  Louis  XIV.),  and  that 
fine  ladies  in  company  were  wont  to  use  goads  or 
prods  of  ivory  or  silver  for  the  purpose  of  allaying, 
in  their  be-powdered  and  be-plastered  coiffures,  that 
which  Sydney  Smith  discreetly  names  cutaneous 
irritation. 

Was  ever  a  Court  more  gallant  to  the  eye,  or  more 
unseemly  in  its  treatment  of  the  person,  than  this 
over-vaunted  Court  of  Louis  Quatorze,  le  roi  soldi  ? 
More  ostentatiously  elegant  in  manners,  or  more 
malodorous?  More  pragmatical  in  its  conduct  of 
every  trivial  ceremony,  or  more  intolerably  dirty  ? 
What  explains  this  rage  of  perfumes,  unguents,, 
essences,  on  which  fortunes  were  spent,  but  the 
desperate  endeavour  to  suppress  or  counteract  the 
effluvia  of  the  neglected  person.     These  wits,  beaux,. 


U  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

pedants  and  petits  maitres  of  the  sparkling  scene 
of  Moliere,  his  admirable  coquettes,  his  blue-stockings 
and  his  bewitching  intrigantes, — were  they  to  appear 
before  us  as  their  living  models  trod  the  streets  ot 
Paris  or  strutted  in  the  gardens  of  Versailles,  we 
should  wish  to  interpose  'twixt  ourselves  and  them 
something  more  than  the  space  allotted  in  the  play- 
house. 

As  Harapha  says  to  poor  blind  Samson  in  the 
prison  of  Gaza  : — 

'  And  thou  hast  need  much  washing  to  be  touch' d.' 

The  subject  is  not  a  sweet  one,  but  we  are 
launched  and  must  adventure. 

It  is  recorded  (matter  of  libel,  surely)  of  a  certain 
head  of  Eton,  that  he  '  dressed  but  didn't  wash.' 
Let  us  see  (and  afterwards  forget)  how  one  might 
dress  without  washing  at  the  peerless  Court  of  le  roi 
soleil.  The  authorities  are  principally  the  '  Civilites,' 
the  fore-runners  of  our  little  fashion-books  or  manuals 
of  correct  behaviour.  One  of  these,  first  published 
about  1640,  and,  I  believe,  several  times  reprinted, 
was  the  'Loix  de  la  Galanterie,'  or  'Laws  of 
Gallantry,'  a  celebrated  code  du  bon  ton.  Herein  the 
gallant  is  advised  that  he  should  '  sometimes  pay  a 
visit  to  the  bath,  to  have  his  body  clean ;'  that  he 
should  '  take  the  trouble  to  wash  his  hands  every 


THE  TOILET  45 

day ;'  and  that  he  should  wash  his  face  *  almost  as 
often.'  Do  not  these  prescripts  speak  for  themselves, 
and  utter  a  grievous  tale  ?  If  I  have  to  learn  in  the 
pages  of  a  manual  that  it  is  well  for  me  to  take  a 
bath  now  and  then,  to  wash  my  hands  at  least  once 
in  the  day,  and  my  face,  say,  every  two  or  three 
days,  what  is  it  but  that,  lacking  the  voice  of  the 
monitor,  I  might  consider  myself  well  washed  at 
the  rate  of  two  baths  per  annum,  my  hands  present- 
able for  a  week  if  I  dipped  them  on  Sunday,  and 
my  face  the  glass  of  fashion  if  I  scoured  it  once  a 
fortnight  ?  The  '  Civilite,'  or  treatise  of  decorum,  is 
not  written  without  a  purpose  ;  it  is  written  to  lift 
the  tone  of  manners  and  propriety  among  the  classes 
whose  tone  of  manners  and  propriety  is  not  quite  of 
the  standard  of  elegance  ;  and  where  the  oracle  is 
emphatic,  as  in  the  matter  of  washing  the  face 
almost  as  often  as  the  hands,  the  only  possible 
inference  is  that  washing  the  face  was  not  the 
common  usage  of  society.  When  the  sage  says  do 
this,  we  are  to  conclude  that  not  everyone  is  in  the 
habit  of  doing  it ;  when  he  bids  us  avoid  that,  we 
are  safe  in  assuming  that  the  prohibition  is  needed 
by  somebody. 

Thus  far,  however,  we  have  got  upon  the  way  to 
decency,  that,  in  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  it  was  good 
form  for  the  man  of  fashion  to  wash  himself  occa- 


46  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

sionally.  But  even  this  must  be  qualified.  Wash- 
ing— at  least,  the  washing  of  the  face — was  a 
euphemism  in  the  name,  a  sorry  compromise  in  the 
act.  Listen  to  J.  B.  de  la  Salle  in  the  '  Regies  de  la 
Bienseance  et  de  la  Civilite  Chretienne,' '  Precepts  of 
Propriety  and  Christian  Civility,'  once  and  for  long  a 
very  bible  of  the  beau  monde.  It  is  well,  says  he,  to 
cleanse  the  face  with  a  fine  towel,  in  order  to 
remove  its  impurities ;  it  is  less  well  to  wash  it  with 
water,  which  renders  the  skin  too  susceptible  to 
cold  in  winter  and  to  the  action  of  the  sun  in 
summer.  This  suggests  a  toilet  almost  as  summary 
as  the  monk's  in  the  cloistral  sty,  and  it  may  be 
added  that  an  edition  of  J.  B.  de  la  Salle  bears  the 
date  1782,  which  is  within  seven  years  of  the  Revo- 
lution, and  within  eighteen  of  the  present  century. 

Yet  the  polite  world,  which  consented  so  easily  to 
this  unseemliness  of  the  person,  was  ceaselessly  oc- 
cupied about  its  clothes  and  its  adornment.  Costume 
was  of  capital  concern  to  old  France,  and  fashion 
was  ever  upon  the  wing.  As  far  back  as  the  four- 
teenth century,  the  rapid  changes  of  the  mode  in 
Paris  were  observed  and  satirised  by  a  certain 
Italian  prince  ;  he  had  portraits  painted  for  his  gal- 
lery to  represent  the  several  nations  of  Europe,  each 
individual  distinguished  by  his  national  garb.  The 
Frenchman  alone  shone  naked  from  the  canvas,  with 


THE  TOILET  47 

a  length  of  cloth  over  one  arm,  to  show  that  the 
quick  vicissitudes  of  fashion  had  prevented  the 
artist  from  learning  what  was  actually  the  wear. 
And  Montaigne,  philosophising  two  centuries  later, 
remarks  that  'our  change  of  fashion  is  so  prompt 
and  sudden,  that  the  inventions  of  all  the  tailors  in 
the  world  cannot  furnish  out  new  whim-whams 
enough  to  feed  our  vanity  withal.'  As  has  been 
seen,  however,  one  may  be  dressed,  like  the  fabled 
head-master  of  Eton,  with  no  approximation  to 
-cleanliness. 

And  the  ladies  ?  The  'Civilites'  are  silent  concern- 
ing the  sex,  but  Marguerite  de  Navarre  has  shown 
her  hands  unasked;  and  those  were  royal  hands, 
and  their  royal  owner  was  no  cipher  on  a  point  of 
elegance.  Is  the  lady-in-waiting  more  punctilious 
than  her  Queen?  Is  the  town  more  fastidious 
than  the  Court?  Even  more  significant,  perhaps, 
than  the  open  confession  of  Margaret  of  Navarre, 
who  has  never  a  suspicion  that  a  queen  is  less  a 
queen  for  not  washing  herself,  is  Madame  de  Motte- 
ville's  naive  praise  of  Anne  of  Austria,  the  pretty 
little  wife  of  Louis  XIIL,  that  she  was  always  '  clean 
and  very  nice  in  her  person '  ('  propre  et  fort  nette '). 
Clearly,  it  was  worthy  of  note  in  a  volume  of 
memoirs,  that  a  French  queen  in  the  seventeenth 
century  took  the  trouble  to  bathe.     But  how  odd 


48  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and  impertinent  a  compliment  of  that  sort  would  be 
just  now !  Imagine  the  visit  of  a  foreign  princess 
to  Ascot  or  the  Opera.  The  chroniclers  of  fashion 
would  describe  her  appearance,  her  dress,  her  orna- 
ments, in  the  newspapers  of  the  next  morning,  but 
we  should  hardly  expect  to  be  told  that  '  the 
princess  seemed  perfectly  clean.' 

It  must  be  concluded  that  the  ladies  were  not  in 
general  more  cleanly  than  the  men,  since  it  is  im- 
possible to  suppose  that,  if  they  had  had  a  proper 
regard  for  their  own  persons,  they  could  have 
endured  the  company  of  dirty  gallants.  Where  is 
the  unwashed  lover  who  wins  his  way  with  a 
mistress  nice  at  her  toilet  ? 

II. 

In  the  reign  of  Philippe-Auguste  (1180-1223) 
beards  went  out  of  fashion,  and  the  hair  was  clipped 
at  about  the  middle  of  the  neck.  Under  Philippe 
VI.  (1328-1350)  and  Jean  II.  (1350-1364)  the  beard 
made  a  timid  re-appearance  ;  but  Charles  V.  (1364- 
1380)  and  his  successors  were  beardless,  with  the  hair 
cut  short  in  front  and  worn  somewhat  long  on  the 
neck.  Dating  from  the  reign  of  Francis  I.  (1515- 
1547),  the  hair  was  kept  close,  but  full  honours  were 
once  more  accorded  to  the  beard.  The  king,  who 
had  received  a  face-wound  in  a  tourney,  let  his 


THE  TOILET  49 

beard  grow  to  hide  the  scar,  and  beards  were  soon 
the  universal  mode  at  Court.  The  bishops  copied 
the  fashion  next,  and  presently  most  men  in  Paris 
had  beards  trimmed  to  a  point.  Just,  however,  as 
the  mode  was  at  its  height,  a  singular  crusade  was 
begun  against  it  by  divers  metropolitan  chapters 
and  parliaments.  It  lasted  long,  and  was  sustained  on 
both  sides  with  an  ardour  absurdly  disproportioned 
to  the  absurdity  of  the  cause.  The  chapters  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  bishops  with  beards,  and  the 
bishops  would  not  sacrifice  their  beards  to  be  re- 
ceived by  the  chapters.  Pierre  Lescot,  abbe  of 
Glagni  and  an  able  architect,  on  whose  designs  the 
old  Louvre  was  built,  being  appointed  a  canon  of 
Notre  Dame,  could  scarcely  get  himself  installed, 
'  beoause  of  the  inordinate  length  of  his  beard.'  The 
question,  to  wear  or  not  to  wear  a  beard,  was 
thought  grave  enough  for  discussion  by  the  Sor- 
bonne,  and  in  July  1581  (according  to  Dulaure)  the 
learned  heads  of  that  great  faculty  issued  a  decree 
in  Latin,  denouncing  the  beard  as  '  contrary  to 
modesty,  which  should  be  the  first  virtue  of  a 
theologian.' 

The  parliament  of  Paris,  which  had  approved 
the  Bartholomew  Massacre,  totally  disapproved  of 
beards  ;  and  its  presidents  and  counsellors  persisted 
in  shaving  their  chins  while  the  Court  and  the  rest 

E 


60  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

of  the  town  went  'bearded  like  the  pard.'  Parliament, 
like  the  Sorbonne,  gave  forth  an  edict :  woe  to  the 
advocate  who  carried  a  beard  to  the  bar,  to  plead  a 
cause ;  Parliament  would  not  hear  him.  Francois 
Olivier,  presenting  himself  there  to  be  received  as 
Master  of  Requests,  could  not  even  get  an  audience 
till  he  had  despoiled  his  chin.  In  June,  1548,  (the 
year  after  the  death  of  Francis  I.,)  one  Antoine 
Dore,  a  Benedictine  monk,  had  the  hardihood  to 
present  himself  in  the  great  hall  of  Parliament, 
*  wearing  a  long  beard  and  a  frilled  shirt.'  He  was 
promptly  had  before  the  bar,  examined  and  cross- 
examined  ;  and  in  due  course  he  found  himself 
solemnly  condemned  '  to  be  returned  to  the  monas- 
tery of  St.-Martin-in-the-Fields  in  this  town  of 
Paris,  there  to  be  shaved  and  rendered  decent,  as 
the  principles  and  practice  of  religion  require  ;  and 
never  again,  on  pain  of  prison,  to  exhibit  himself  in 
so  unseemly  and  irregular  a  guise.'  Between  1530 
and  1576,  a  period  in  which  France  had  her  share  of 
troubles,  no  fewer  than  eight  separate  volumes  in 
Latin  were  composed  to  settle  the  portentous  ques- 
tion, whether  chins  should  be  fringed  or  smooth. 

Louis  XIII.  mounted  the  throne  (in  1610)  with  a 
lull  moustache  and  a  slight  '  imperial '  on  the  lower 
lip,  but  a  sudden  caprice  of  the  inept  monarch  gave 
a  new  turn  to   fashion.     With   none   of  the  virile 


TEE  TOILET  51 

tastes  of  his  father,  Henri  IV.,  (Ravaillac's  victim,) 
Louis  XIII.  had  a  variety  of  small  accomplishments. 
He  was  something  of  a  cook  (though  nothing  of  a 
gourmet),  and  is  said  to  have  larded  a  fowl  to  per- 
fection ;  he  trained  birds,  and  prided  himself  on  his 
gardening;  he  composed  a  little,  painted  a  little, 
and  did  a  little  fancy-work  in  wood  and  leather. 
It  occurred  to  him  one  day  to  turn  barber.  He 
called  his  courtiers  together,  and  shaved  them  all. 
The  great  Richelieu,  with  whom  one  did  not  trifle 
in  this  fashion,  was  the  only  man  at  Court  who  kept 
his  formidable  moustaches  and  imperial. 

After  Louis  XIII.  no  French  king  wore  a  beard, 
but  the  moustache  was  soon  again  in  favour,  and 
the  swash-buckler  of  the  middle  seventeenth  cen- 
tury is  said  to  have  displayed  as  many  as  six  on 
each  side  of  the  face.  During  the  first  part  of  his 
reign  Louis  XIV.  showed  a  thin  elegant  line  on  the 
upper  lip,  then  it  disappeared,  and  all  good  courtiers 
went  straightway  to  the  barber.  The  later  por- 
traits of  Comeille  and  Moliere  show  not  a  hair  on 
the  face.  Plain  characters  not  mingling  with  the 
Court  did  as  it  liked  them. 

The  age  of  Louis  Quatorze  is  the  age  of  the 
peruke.  The  use  of  false  hair  in  other  fashions  was 
much  earlier,  for  we  have  the  Fathers  of  the  Church 
and  the  preachers  of  the  middle  ages  (who  took  a 

E  2 


52  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

licence  in  the  pulpit  which  our  own  age  has  not 
ventured    to    imitate),    scolding    the   women    who 
decked   their  heads  with  'tresses  stolen  from   the 
dead,  from  those  who  perchance  are  wasting  in  the 
fires  of  hell ;'  and  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XII.  the  two 
sexes  were  equally  to  blame  in  the  matter.     Louis 
XIII.,  who  lost  his  own  hair  at  thirty  years  of  age, 
set  the  fashion  of  the  peruke,  but  it  was  in  the 
succeeding  reign  that  this  curious  mode  attained  its 
glory.     Yet  Louis  XIV.  was  thirty-five  before  he 
could  be  induced  to  patronise  the  wig-makers.     His 
own  hair  was  abundant  and  comely,  and  rather  than 
let  it  fall  to  the  barber  he  had  his  peruke  adapted 
to   it ;    the   natural    hair    showed   through   meshes 
of  the  wig.     His  perruquier  was  Binet,  quite   an 
artist  in  his  craft,  who  gave  his  name  to  the  peruke 
called  binette,  a  term  which  came  to  signify,  in  the 
slang  of  Paris,  the  head  itself.    Louis  had  a  chamber 
full  of  wigs  at  Versailles,  the  cabinet  des  perruques  du 
roi,  and  put  on  a  fresh  one  for  chapel,  for  hunting, 
for  resting  indoors,  and  for  receiving   the  visits  of 
ambassadors.     His  barber  rarely  quitted  the  Court, 
and  was  one  of  the  five  hundred  persons  who  had 
the  privilege  of  dining  at  the  royal  board.     Louis, 
whose  skin  was  delicate,  shaved  only  on  alternate 
days. 

From  this  reign,  the  industry  of  the  perruquier 


THE  TOILET  53 

consumed  an   incredible   quantity  of  hair.     Heads 
living  and   dead  were   placed  under   contribution, 
says  M.  Franklin,  in  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe  ; 
and  the  minister  Colbert  was  disposed  to  check  the 
importation,  which  would  end,  he  thought,  by  ruin- 
ing   France.       But    the    perruquiers   were    better 
economists    than    the    minister,   for    the    statistics 
which  they  presented  to  him  showed  conclusively 
that    the    sale    of   perukes    to    foreign    customers 
brought  into  France  more  money  than  went  out  of 
it  in  the  purchase  of  hair.     In  truth,  the  French 
wig-maker  never  had  a  rival ;  and  from  England, 
Germany,  Spain,  and  Italy  there  was  a  steady  de- 
mand for  his  creations.     At  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century  there  were   about  fifty  whole- 
sale hair-merchants  in  Paris  alone,  and  towards  the 
close  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  the  commodity  was 
already  so  scarce,  notwithstanding  that  the  dealers 
had  their  agents   in   the   remotest   countries,  that 
horse-hair  was  used  for  perukes  of  the  commoner 
kinds. 

The  varieties  of  the  peruke  were  extraordinary. 
It  was  at  its  most  majestic  under  Louis  XIV.,  when 
the  royale,  or  in-folio,  a  form  reserved  exclusively  for 
the  aristocracy,  was  fitter,  says  a  eulogist  of  the 
present  day,  to  crown  a  statue  than  to  be  flattened 
on  the  head  of  a  mere  man.    But  the  peruke,  sym- 


M  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

bol  of  an  absolute  monarchy,  waned  in  dignity  with 
the  power  of  the  throne.     It  was  in  its  decline  under 
Louis  XV. ;  the  superb  royale  began  to  shrink,  and  its 
colossal  proportions  were  never  afterwards  restored 
to  it.     For  all   this,  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  was  distinguished,  among  other  works  of 
note,  by  forty-five  varieties  of  wigs,  each  owning 
a  style  and  name  of  its  own;  though  it  may  have 
tasked  the  judgment  of  an  expert  to  distinguish  the 
*  Musketeer '   from   the    ;  Cavalier,'   the   '  Adorable ' 
from  the  '  Inconstant,'  the  •  Lunatic '  from  the  '  Pru- 
dent,' the  '  Pigeon's- Wing '  from  the  '  Port  Mahon,' 
the  '  Dragon '  from  the  •  Cornet,'  the  '  New  Mode  ' 
from  the  '  Soonest  Made,'  or  the   '  Economic '  from 
the  'Envious.'     Certain  classes,  nevertheless,  were 
conservative  in    their  perukes ;    that  of    the    abbe 
underwent  little  change,  and  the  doctor  and  apothe- 
cary remained  faithful  to  the  three-hammer  pattern. 
Under  Louis  XVI.  all  Paris  was  be-wigged  ;  nobles, 
commoners,  every  profession,  trade  and  calling,  and 
every  age  between  the  cradle  and  the  crutch.     The 
merest  lacquey,  says  M.  Franklin,  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  show  himself  'avec  sespropres  cheveux,' 
and  the  form  of  the  wig  proclaimed  the  quality  of 
the  wearer. 

From  the  peruke  arose   another  fashion,  that  of 
remaining  uncovered  in  company.     Formerly  it  was 


THE   TOILET  65 

rare  for  men  to  remove  their  hats,  even  at  table  or 
in  the  drawing-room,  except  for  the  purpose  of  the 
salute  ;  but  when  heads  were  loaded  with  false  hair, 
hats  lost  their  proper  office,  and  the  tricorne,  or 
three-cornered,  took  the  name  of  chapeau  de  bras,  from 
the  custom  of  carrying  it  between  the  arm  and  the 
side.  Antoine  de  Courtin,  writing  in  1675,  observes 
that  it  is  '  polite  to  have  the  head  uncovered  in  the 
drawing-room  or  antechamber ;'  but  the  old  practice 
seems  to  have  obtained  at  the  dinner-table,  for,  as 
late  as  1782,  J.  B.  de  la  Salle  distinctly  states  that 
it  is  '  contrary  to  good  behaviour  to  remove  the  hat 
at  dinner,  unless  in  the  presence  of  a  guest  to  whom 
special  honours  are  to  be  accorded.'  Up  to  the 
Revolution,  in  short,  it  was  as  much  an  act  of 
familiarity  for  a  gentleman  to  sit  at  table  with 
his  head  bare  as  it  would  be  now  for  him  to  take 
his  seat  with  his  hat  on.  With  or  without  the  hat, 
the  salute  in  old  France  was  punctilious  to  a  degree. 
Properly  to  accost  a  nobleman  in  the  street,  the 
body  bent  double,  the  hat  sweeping  the  ground,  the 
hand  itself  touching  the  earth,  was  an  art  which 
gave  significant  expression  to  the  power  of  birth  at 
that  era  over  every  rank  and  grade  inferior. 

A  word  may  follow  here  on  the  mouclie,  patch,  or 
beauty-spot,  a  fashion  to  the  full  as  ridiculous  as 
the  peruke.     Everyone  knows  that  the  patch  was  a 


66  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

morsel  of  black  silk  gummed  on  the  face,  but  not 
everyone  is  aware  of  its  origin.  It  was  the  custom 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  says  a  modern  commenta- 
tor, to  cure  tooth-ache  by  applying  to  the  temples 
little  plaisters  spread  on  silk  or  velvet;  and,  he 
argues,  the  coquette  would  be  quick  to  observe  the 
effect  of  the  black  patch  in  enhancing  the  white- 
ness of  the  skin.  Whatever  the  result  to  the  raging 
tooth,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  success  of 
the  plaister  as  an  aid  to  the  toilet;  and  in  this 
manner,  it  seems  likely  enough,  the  mode  may  have 
arisen.  It  overran  the  whole  of  French  society  in 
an  astonishingly  short  time,  the  clergy  not  excepted, 
for  a  mazarinade  of  1649  threatens  with  the  wrath 
of  heaven  the  '  curled  and  powdered  abb6s,  whose 
faces  are  covered  with  patches.' 

Under  Louis  XV.  every  lady  carried  in  her  pocket 
a  little  box  of  silver,  ivory,  or  mother-of-pearl,  which 
contained  a  mirror,  some  rouge,  and  a  supply  of 
patches.  There  were  the  square  patch,  the  round 
patch,  and  the  oval  patch,  the  star-shaped,  heart- 
shaped,  and  cross-shaped  patch,  and  even  the  patch 
in  the  form  of  a  bird  or  animal.  Each  had,  more- 
over, its  proper  name.  Placed  near  the  eye,  it  was 
the  '  passionate ;'  on  the  forehead,  the  '  majestic ;' 
on  the  lips,  the  ■  coquette ;'  at  the  corner  of  the 
mouth,  the  '  kiss  ;'  on  the  nose,  the  '  impertinent ;' 


THE  TOILET  57 

in  the  centre  of  the  cheek,  the  '  galante ;'  on  the 
lower  lip,  the  '  discreet.' 

The  uncleanly  habit  of  powdering  the  hair  came 
in  with  the  use  of  the  patch.  Henri  III.,  whose 
memory  is  one  of  the  nightmares  of  French  history, 
went  about  the  streets  of  Paris  '  painted  like  an  old 
coquette,'  his  hair  smothered  in  scented  powder. 
Louis  XIV.  detested  the  practice,  to  which,  how- 
ever, he  gave  in  rather  late  in  life.  The  manufacture 
of  powder  for  the  hair  was  a  monopoly  of  the 
glovers,  who  must  have  made  well  by  it,  for  the 
consumption  during  two  centuries  was  such  that,  as 
philanthropic  persons  observed,  the  same  quantity 
of  flour  would  have  maintained  'ten  thousand 
unfortunates.' 

As  far  back  as  the  fifteenth  century  the  lady  of 
fashion  had  her  coiffeuse,  or  female  hair-dresser, 
whose  services  were  hired  for  special  occasions, 
such  as  a  wedding  or  a  ball.  During  the  fifteenth, 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  the  coiffeuse 
seems  to  have  held  her  own,  but  in  the  eighteenth 
ehe  was  quite  put  out  of  countenance  by  the  male 
artist,  who  '  kept  his  carriage,'  and  was  often  a 
person  to  be  cajoled  and  conciliated  by  the  great 
Indies  who  employed  him.  To  have  one's  head 
embellished  by  the  genius  who  had  created  the 
coifture  of  a  duchess  of  the  Court  was  a  distinction 


58  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

in  itself,  and  ladies  of  lesser  rank,  failing  in  the  arts 
of  flattery,  had  oftentimes  recourse  to  bribery.  The 
coiffeur  -who  played  his  cards  well,  and  was  the 
recipient  of  secrets  and  confidences,  enriched  him- 
self easily,  and  now  and  then,  as  would  appear,  he 
stood  to  his  client  almost  in  the  relation  of  confessor . 
Legros,  a  ladies'  barber  of  infinite  and  most  enter- 
taining vanity,  who  asserted  that  he  alone  had 
made  hair-dressing  a  fine  art,  boasted  in  inflated 
prose  that  he  had  received  '  the  plaudits  of  the 
Queens  and  Princesses  of  every  Court,'  and  of 
1  toutes  les  Dames  en  general.'  A  talent  such  as  his, 
he  adds,  '  gives  an  added  power  to  the  beauty  which 
the  poet  celebrates  ;'  such  skill '  gives  assurance  and 
puissance  to  beauty's  empire.' 

As  each  variety  of  peruke  and  patch  was  dis- 
tinguished by  a  name,  so  also  were  the  innumerable 
varieties  of  the  coiffure;  and  in  accordance  with 
the  taste  of  the  wearer,  or  with  the  authority  exer- 
cised by  her  coiffeur,  the  fashionable  head  was  decked 
a  la  Frivolity  a  V Ingenue,  a  la  Harpie,  a  la  Diane,  au 
Caprice,  a  la  Flore,  a  la  Cdres,  or  in  the  manner  of 
the  '  Constant  Butterfly,'  the  '  Windmill,'  the  '  Dis- 
creet Witness,'  the  •  Dove,'  the  '  Half-Conquest,' 
the  '  Complete  Conquest,'  the  '  Zodiacal,'  the 
«  Kite,'  the  '  Gondola,'  the  '  Basket,'  the  '  Fearless,' 
the  'Dog  Couchant,'  or  the  'Charms  of  Liberty.' 
The  list  was  well-nigh  innumerable. 


THE  TOILET  59* 

There  were  degrees  of  folly  in  this,  but  the 
height  and  masterpiece  of  absurdity  was  the  pouf,  a 
huge  and  complicated  structure  in  which  various 
articles  were  built  into  the  hair,  so  to  speak,  to  give 
the  head  the  appearance  of  a  frigate  in  full  sail,  a 
garden  with  terraces,  a  fortified  castle,  a  forest,  a 
tomb,  the  Colosseum  at  Rome,  and  heaven  knows 
what  besides.  To  such  an  excess  was  this  freakish 
fashion  carried  that  Madame  Campan  tells  us  car- 
riages and  coaches  were  not  high  enough  to  accom- 
modate the  head-gear,  and  ladies  of  the  Court 
might  be  seen  driving  to  a  ball  with  their  heads 
out  of  window  or  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  the 
conveyance !  Doors  had  to  be  raised  in  height  to 
admit  the  pouf,  and  Marie  Antoinette,  going  to  a 
dance  at  the  Duchesse  de  Chartres',  could  not 
enter  the  ball-room  until  the  upper  tier  or  story 
of  the  edifice  she  was  crowned  with  had  been  re- 
moved. But  the  knife  of  the  Revolution  was 
whetting  for  these  foolish  heads. 


60 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE 


i. 


The  Paris  housewife  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
with  purse  of  reasonable  stretch,  had  a  fair  choice 
for  her  larder.  The  town  had  markets,  and  good 
ones ;  and  the  fish-mart,  never  easy  to  provision  at 
a  distance  from  the  coast,  offered  salmon,  turbot, 
brill,  soles,  plaice,  mackerel,  sturgeon,  whiting, 
cod,  skate,  lobster,  eels,  sardines,  mullet,  mussels, 
and  whales'  tongue.  There  were  recipes  for  cook- 
ing all  of  these,  which  a  palate  trained  to  the 
refinements  of  the  modern  French  cuisine  would 
consider  rather  curious  than  dainty.  If  the  weather 
were  bad,  or  the  housewife  too  lazy,  or  too  busy  to 
go  to  market,  she  could  buy  most  of  what  she 
needed  at  her  own  door.  Among  the  cries  of  old 
Paris,  none  were  more  familiar  than  those  of  the 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  61 

sellers  of  food,  who,  with  a  basket  on  either  arm,  or 
in  paniers  slung  across  a  nag,  hawked  through  the 
streets  bread,  meal,  cheese,  milk,  butter,  honey, 
meat  both  fresh  and  salted,  fish,  poultry,  vegetables, 
fruit,  oils  and  spices,  chestnuts  from  Lombardy  and 
figs  from  Malta.  Corn  and  flour,  as  well  as  wood 
and  water,  were  carried  to  the  door.  But  provisions 
of  the  best  kinds  were  generally  sold  in  special 
places ;  the  fish-market  for  the  finest  qualities  of 
fish ;  the  Grande  Boucherie  near  the  Chatelet  (the 
stalls  of  which,  like  the  crown  of  France,  descended 
from  father  to  son  in  one  family)  for  the  choicest 
quality  of  meat.  Roast  and  baked  meats,  hot  or 
cold  ;  pates,  pies,  and  all  manner  of  pastry  were 
sold  either  in  shops  or  on  stalls  along  the  streets,  in 
most  parts  of  the  town;  and  the  regrattier,  or 
'  universal  provider,'  was  already  doing  business  on 
a  considerable  scale.  When  the  shops  were  shut 
on  Saturdays,  all  or  most  of  the  tradespeople 
carried  their  goods  to  the  great  central  market 
behind  the  Cemetery  of  the  Innocents.  It  was  not 
the  most  savoury  spot  in  Paris,  but  as  all  articles 
were  set  out  here  in  the  open  air,  the  buyer  was  on 
more  advantageous  terms  with  the  seller  than  when 
picking  and  choosing  in  the  owl's  light  of  a  shop 
half-hidden  by  an  enormous  signboard  and  an  over- 
hanging story. 


<62  AD  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

The  bachelor  who  was  dull  when  he  dined  alone 
could  repair  to  some  neighbouring  tavern,  and  the 
same  asylum  invited  the  giver  of  a  feast  whose  rooms 
were  too  narrow  for  company ;  but  the  mediaeval  inn, 
even  in  Paris,  was  a  place  of  sorry  entertainment.  If 
visitors  came  without  warning,  and  wanted  dinner, 
it  was  better  to  send  to  the  nearest  cuisinier  for  a 
pigeon  pie,  or  a  goose  or  sucking  pig  which  could  be 
bought  ready  for  serving. 

Except  in  seasons  of  excessive  dearth,  the  markets 
of  Paris,  the  cook-shops,  and  the  provision  dealers, 
were  furnished  to  suit  all  purses  ;  and  the  most  unhap- 
py periods  of  the  middle  ages  (to  go  no  farther  back 
than  the  calamitous  reign  of  Charles  VI.)  discovered 
among  the  Parisians  of  all  classes  that  zest  of  good 
living  which  was  to  produce,  some  centuries  later, 
the  finest  cookery  in  the  world.  In  all  substantial 
houses,  the  kitchen  was  a  chamber  of  parade ;  the 
guest  was  taken  to  admire  it,  as  one  might  take  him 
nowadays  to  admire  the  picture-gallery ;  and  the 
master-cook,  on  the  tall  stool  from  which  he  surveyed 
and  directed  his  scullions,  sweating  under  the  gi- 
gantic chimney,  was  the  father  of  the  chef  who  may 
aspire,  in  a  London  hotel,  to  the  salary  of  a  judge. 

But  in  this  age  Paris  was  merely  feeding,  feeding 
in  a  gross  and  jolly  Gargantuan  fashion,  indoors  or 
•out  of  doors,  (breakfast  under  canvas  in  the  sun  is 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  63 

still  a  pleasure  to  seek  across  the  Channel,)  feeding 
with  the  best  of  appetites,  but  without  a  notion  of 
refinement  or  of  art.  The  ragout  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  spiced  and  disguised  out  of  all  recognition, 
survives  as  a  nightmare  of  the  student-cook  who 
will  still  be  digging  for  inspiration  amid  the  black- 
letter  livres  de  cuisine ;  but  no  cook  or  chef,  with  a 
place  to  lose,  would  send  it  up  to  table.  The  sight 
of  the  board  spread  as  it  used  to  be  for  '  dinner  '  in 
the  morning  or  '  supper '  in  the  afternoon,  would  turn 
the  stomach  of  a  farm-labourer.  Think  of  one  enor- 
mous earthen  dish  in  the  centre,  charged  to  its  full- 
est capacity  with  fish,  meat,  poultry  and  black  pud- 
dings, and  girt  with  a  rampart  of  vegetables.  The 
entire  meal  was  frequently  heaped  in  this  way  into  a 
single  pot  or  vessel,  into  which  each  guest  in  turn, 
or  all  at  once,  plunged  their  naked  fists.  As  for  the 
recipes  for  special  dishes,  they  make  the  flesh  creep. 
4  Take  eggs  in  oil,'  runs  one,  '  then  almonds,  peel- 
ed and  pounded ;  mince  onions,  and  after  boiling 
them  in  water  fry  them  in  oil ;  mix  ginger,  cinnamon, 
cloves,  and  a  little  saffron  steeped  in  verjuice ;  put 
all  in  the  pot  and  boil.' 

An  amateur  with  a  practical  turn  induoed  his  cook 
to  prepare  him  a  duck  after  the  receipt  of  Taillevent, 
cook-in-chief  to  Charles  V. 

1  Observe,'  says  he,  '  that  the  duck  was  one  of  my 


64  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

own  rearing,  delicately  nurtured,  and  vowed  from 
infancy  to  this  high  experiment.  I  fed  him  choicely, 
hoping  that  he  would  one  day  repay  my  cares,  but 
his  ingratitude,  alas !  was  passing  great.  Since, 
however,  I  had  neglected  to  give  him  the  choice  of 
the  sauce  he  was  to  be  eaten  with*  I  could  bear  his 
memory  no  malice ;  but  I  cannot  think  without  a 
pang  of  the  sufferings  of  Charles  V.' 

The  sixteenth  century  arrived.  Art  and  letters, 
and  some  of  the  sciences,  were  advancing ;  but  la 
cuisine  was  as  unsophisticated  as  ever,  and,  through 
all  the  Renaissance  '  the  frightful  salmigondi  '  of  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries,  that  incredible 
farrago  of  incongruous  viands,  was  supreme  on  the 
table.  Rabelais  will  tell  us  what  redoutable  trench- 
ermen the  French  were  at  this  epoch.  The  table  or- 
dinarily kept  in  any  easy  household  in  Paris  might 
have  furnished  him  with  those  stupendous  lists — 
running  through  two  chapters  of  '  Pantagruel ' — of 
'  what  the  Gastrolaters  sacrifice  to  then  ventripotent 
god.'  With  the  inevitable  touch  of  burlesque,  it  is 
Paris  at  table  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

'  Coming  near  the  Gastrolaters,'  says  Rabelais,  '  I 
saw  they  were  followed  by  a  great  number  of  fat 
waiters  and  tenders,  laden  with  baskets,  dossers, 
hampers,  dishes,  wallets,  pots  and  kettles.' 

At  his  first  course  they  offer  master  Gaster,  among 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  65 

other  things,  six  sorts  of  carbonadoes,  nine  sorts  of 
fricassees,  cold  loins  of  veal,  gravy,  soup,  hotch-pots, 
marrow-bones,  hashes,  and  beatille  pies — with  '  eter- 
nal drink  intermixed.'  The  fourteen  dishes  of  the 
second  course  included  chitterlings,  hogs'  haslets, 
neats'  tongue,  chines  and  peas,  brawn  heads,  pow- 
dered venison,  puddings  and  pickled  olives ;  and  '  all 
this  associated  with  sempiternal  liquor.'  Next  they 
1  housed  within  his  muzzle  '  a  third  course  of  ninety- 
five  separate  dishes,  beginning  with  legs  of  mutton, 
lumber  pies  with  hot  sauce,  dwarf-herons  and  ribs  of 
pork,  and  finishing  with  '  dry  and  wet  sweetmeats, 
seventy-eight  sorts,'  and  cream  cheese  ;  and  '  perpe- 
tuity of  soaking  with  the  whole.'  On  his  interlard- 
ed fish-days  Gaster  was  coaxed  with  •  eggs  fry'd, 
beaten,  butter'd,  poach'd,  harden'd,  boil'd,  broil'd, 
stew'd,  slic'd,  roasted  in  the  embers,  toss'd  in  the 
chimney,  &c.,'  eighty-seven  varieties  of  fish,  from 
1  swordfish '  to  shrimps ;  and  a  last  course  of  '  rice 
milk  and  hasty  pudding,'  parsnips,  stewed  prunes, 
artichokes,  water-gruel  and  chestnuts. 

'  If,  when  he  had  crammed  all  this  down  his  gut- 
tural trap-door,'  says  Rabelais  (I  quote  throughout 
from  the  matchless  translation  of  Urquhart),  '  he  did 
not  immediately  make  the  fish  swim  again  in  his 
paunch,  death  would  pack  him  off  in  a  trice.  Special 

F 


66  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

care  is  taken  to  antidote  his  godship  with  vine- 
tree  sirup.' 

Every  reader  of  this  greatest  of  satires  (for  Rabe- 
lais' humanity  exalts  him  far  above  Swift)  will 
remember  the  everlasting  praise  of  the  bottle ;  but 
Rabelais  himself,  a  plain  feeder  and  a  water-drinker, 
had  as  little  sympathy  with  the  '  gastrolatrous  hob- 
goblins '  of  his  time  as  with  the  knavish  priest  and 
the  crooked  politician,  and  his  Pantagruel  'did  not 
like  this  pack  of  rascally  scoundrels,  with  their 
manifold  kitchen  sacrifices,'  in  whom,  nevertheless, 
the  France  of  that  day  read  its  sins  of  gluttony 
without  a  blush. 

Prodigious  feasting  was  the  rule  where  the  cost 
was  not  in  question.  At  the  banquet  given  to 
Catherine  de  Medicis  by  the  town  of  Paris  in  June, 
1549,  there  were  served,  amid  other  delicacies, 
thirty  peacocks,  thirty-three  pheasants,  twenty-one 
swans,  nine  cranes,  thirty-three  egrets,  sixty-six 
turkeys,  thirty  kids,  six  hogs,  thirty  capons,  ninety- 
nine  pullets,  thirty-three  hares,  ninety-nine  pigeons, 
ninety-nine  turtle-doves,  and  thirteen  geese,  a  menu 
not  ungrateful  to  Catherine,  who  was  a  gross  feeder 
and  subject  to  indigestion.  She  had  brought  over 
cooks  from  Italy,  who  began  a  little  to  simplify  the 
French  cuisine,  and  who  stood  high  as  artists  in 
their  own  esteem.     Montaigne  is  as  humorous   as 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  67 

Lamb  in  his  account  of  one  of  them,  who  held  a 
solemn  discourse  with  him  upon  the  mysteries  of 
his  calling. 

For  all  this  fine  talk  the  cheer  at  Catherine  de 
Medicis'  court  was  poor  enough,  and  during  the 
reign  of  her  son,  Charles  IX.,  ten  years  of  bad 
harvests,  keeping  the  country  in  perpetual  dread  of 
famine,  gave  rise  to  the  first  sumptuary  laws  against 
extravagant  living.  Increased  consumption  in  those 
days  did  not  mean  increased  production  or  a  larger 
importation.  Commerce  was  insecure,  means  of 
communication  were  exceedingly  defective,  and  the 
tiller  of  the  soil  was  not  exactly  a  free  labourer. 
Accordingly,  when  famine  threatened,  the  Crown 
attacked  the  kitchen.  But  in  France  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  and  later,  laws  which  interfered 
with  comfort  or  with  ancient  custom  were  set  aside, 
and  the  pleasures  of  the  table  were  not  seriously 
curtailed  by  the  edict  of  1563,  which  made  it  a  civil 
offence  to  give  your  guest  a  dinner  of  more  than 
three  courses.  It  is  improbable  that  the  host  con- 
victed of  four  courses  was  often  mulcted  in  the  fine 
of  two  hundred  francs,  or  his  guests  in  the  fine  of 
forty  francs  apiece,  or  that  the  cuisinier  who  supplied 
the  feast  was  often  called  upon  to  undergo  the 
penalty  of  fifteen  days'  imprisonment  with  bread  and 
water,  or  the  severer  one  (for  a  third  offence)  of 

F  2 


68  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

whipping  and  banishment,  'as  a  person  obnoxious 
to  the  State.' 

Between  1563  and  1639  this  edict  was  renewed 
some  six  or  eight  times,  a  period  of  three-quarters  of 
a  century,  during  which  Paris  seems  to  have  dined 
with  as  little  restraint  as  if  no  such  thing  as  a 
sumptuary  law  had  ever  been  invented.  The  ink 
was  scarcely  dry  upon  the  parchment  of  the  first 
prohibition  when  Belon  wrote  that  *au  repas  d'un 
simple  bourgeois,'  there  were  three  or  four  dozen 
dirty  plates  to  be  removed  when  the  board  was 
cleared  ;  and  Bodin,  writing  in  1574,  amused  himself 
with  the  notion  that  'un  diner  ordinaire'  could 
confine  itself  to  the  three  courses  of  the  law.  Har- 
vests might  be  short,  civil  war  might  multiply  the 
cost  of  food,  sumptuary  laws  might  make  the  loin 
of  mutton  a  matter  of  fine,  but  Paris,  says  Bodin, 
'  will  still  run  to  ruin  in  the  kitchen,'  and  '  let  the 
price  of  provisions  be  never  so  high  (quoique  les 
vivres  soient  plus  chers  qu'ils  ne  furent  oncques),  if 
there  is  a  feast  to  be  given,  it  is  not  reckoned  a  good 
one  unless  there  are  ticklish  meats  in  profusion  to 
whet  and  tease  the  appetite.' 

An  ambassador  from  Venice  to  Paris  in  1557, 
Jerome  Lippomano,  supports  Bodin,  and  writes 
quite  simply  and  without  prejudice  about  this 
national  devotion  to  Gaster.    '  The  French,'  he  said, 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  69 

'  eat  little  fruit  and  not  much  bread,  but  they  are 
greatly  addicted  to  meat,  with  which  the  table  is 
heaped  at  all  their  banquets.  On  the  whole,  it  is 
pretty  well  roasted,  and  generally  well  seasoned. 
They  are  partial  to  all  kinds  of  pastry,  and,  whether 
in  town  or  village,  you  will  find  rotisseurs  and  pdtis- 
siers  who  have  dishes  either  cooked  for  the  table  or 
just  ready  for  the  oven.  My  readers  will  scarcely 
credit  me  when  1  say  that  a  capon,  a  partridge,  or  a 
hare  may  be  bought  larded,  roasted,  and  ready  for 
carving  at  a  cheaper  price  than  the  live  creature  is 
sold  at  in  the  markets  ;  but  the  explanation  is,  that 
the  rotisseurs,  buying  them  in  great  quantities  at 
wholesale  prices  (les  prenant  en  gros,  a  bas  prix), 
can  sell  them  to  a  profit  at  a  very  moderate  charge. 
Paris  is  supplied  in  plenty  with  all  that  it  wants  for 
the  table.  Great  as  the  population  is,  it  lacks  no- 
thing ;  you  would  think  that  the  heavens  rained 
food  upon  it.  There  is  a  veritable  confusion  of 
butchers,  provision  dealers,  rotisseurs,  and  inn- 
keepers.' The  lively  ambassador,  tombed  in  the 
French  archives,  gets  home  to  the  modern  reader  as 
closely  as  yesterday's  reporter  in  'Figaro'  or  'Gil 
Bias.' 

The  same  gossip  informs  us  that  the  entertainer, 
who  wished  to  do  the  thing  in  style,  could  always 
hire  for  the  day  the  house  of  some  nobleman  or 


70  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

wealthy  citizen,  whose  concierge  or  maitre  d'hotel 
provided  everything. 

'  Houses  in  Paris  are  let  furnished  either  by  the 
day  or  by  the  month ;  the  concierges,  who  may  be 
regarded  in  this  connection  as  agents  or  brokers,  are 
afraid  to  hire  them  for  a  longer  period,  lest  their 
masters  should  return  unexpectedly.  If  that  should 
happen,  one  must  flit  with  all  speed.  Thus,  in  my 
time,  Monsigneur  Salviati,  the  papal  nuncio,  was 
obliged  to  move  house  three  times  in  two  months.' 

When  the  town  feted  some  royal  or  distinguished 
person  a  host  of  caterers  was  set  in  motion,  as 
when  a  Lord  Mayor  or  a  Corporation  plays  the 
great  amphitryon.  There  was  gold  and  silver  plate 
in  profusion  (even  if  much  of  it  were  hired)  ;  one 
purveyor  would  furnish  all  the  solid  viands,  another 
the  wines,  a  third  the  confectionery,  a  fourth  the 
fruits  and  garlands  of  flowers,  a  fifth  the  spices  and 
preserves,  a  sixth  the  perfumes  and  rose-water  for 
washing  the  hands ;  and  so  forth.  This  was  the 
era  when  guests  in  fine  houses  were  first  waited  on 
by  servants  in  livery,  and  the  fork  was  just  coming 
into  use. 

At  the  Louvre,  when  Henri  III.  was  on  the  throne, 
of  all  the  Kings  of  France  the  most  effeminate,  the 
most  corrupt  and  the  most  contemptible,  '  every- 
thing went  to  the  deuce,'  says  M.  Franklin,  in  the 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE 

royal  kitchen ;  and  in  1582  it  was  necessary  to 
admonish  the  cooks  to  be  more  careful  with  his 
majesty's  meals,  to  send  up  none  but  the  best  meat 
to  his  table,  to  skim  the  soup,  and  keep  the  dishes 
clean.  Henri  IV.,  of  valiant  memory,  much  strait- 
ened during  his  long  contentions  with  the  Ligue, 
was  not  only  forced  to  keep  frugal  board  at  home, 
but  had  sometimes  to  fare  abroad  in  search  of 
dinner.  His  one  weakness  at  table  was  a  passion 
for  melons.  Louis  XIIL,  whose  reputation  is  scarce- 
ly better  than  Henri  III.'s,  cared  as  little  for  the  table 
as  he  did  for  his  friends,  his  dogs,  and  his  women. 
Louis  XIV.,  au  contraire,  was  a  gormandizer  whom 
a  kingdom  could  hardly  feed.  His  case  of  cold 
meats  accompanied  him  to  the  chase,  and  stood 
beside  his  bed  at  night ;  and  his  prowess  at  table, 
whenever  he  dined  in  public,  was  the  wonder  of  his 
subjects.  It  was  the  boast  of  the '  grand  monarque ' 
that  he  took  nothing  between  meals  (Marie  Therese, 
his  spouse,  was  perpetually  nibbling  at  something), 
but  the  truth  appears  to  have  been  that  he  could  not. 
The  Princess  Palatine  remarks  in  one  of  her  pungent 
letters  that  she  has  often  seen  him  eat  '  four  plate- 
fuls  of  different  soups,  a  whole  pheasant,  a  partridge, 
a  great  plate  of  salade,  two  great  slices  of  ham,  a 
plate  of  mutton  seasoned  with  garlic,  pastry,  and  after 
that  fruit  and  hard-boiled  eggs.'    Saint-Simon  says  : 


72  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

'  With  the  first  mouthfuls  of  soup  his  appetite 
awoke,  and  so  prodigiously  and  solidly  did  he  eat 
night  and  morning,  that  no  one  who  watched  him 
could  ever  grow  accustomed  to  the  sight.' 

As  the  King  had  bad  teeth,  and  bolted  his  food, 
the  doctor  was  often  in  attendance.  He  was  a 
valetudinarian  before  the  prime  of  life ;  and  his  old 
age  was  plagued  by  vertigo,  dyspepsia,  rheumatism, 
the  gravel,  gout,  fever,  catarrhs,  and  a  settled 
weariness  of  flesh  and  spirit. 

The  Court  and  Paris,  servilely  imitative  of  the 
King  in  most  things,  confessed  him  sans  pareil  at 
the  trencher,  where  indeed  none  but  himself  could 
be  his  parallel.  Under  such  a  sovereign,  however, 
the  '  solemn  ceremony  of  manducation,'  to  borrow  a 
phrase  of  Lamb,  was  not  likely  to  diminish,  and  it 
is  to  be  observed  that  while  Louis  was  tucking 
down  whole  pheasants  for  his  second  course,  Paris 
in  general  was  coining  to  a  more  rational  and  seemly 
habit  at  the  table.  The  fork  (albeit  Louis  would 
none  of  it,  and  fed  himself  habitually  with  his 
fingers),  was  a  great  civiliser,  and  simultaneously 
with  its  introduction  into  France,  manners  began  to 
be  softer,  or  at  least  more  elegant,  and  the  menu  to 
feel  the  first  influences  of  refinement.  The  abomin- 
able ragouts  of  the  fourteenth  century  had  disap- 
peared.     The    affreux    salmigo?idi,   and    the    ducks 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  73 

spoiled  in  the  manner  of  M.  Taillevent ;  but  even 
towards  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century  it  was 
still  a  very  usual  practice  to  load  the  central  dish 
with  meats  of  different  sorts.  No  less  was  it  the 
custom  at  this  date  to  overcook  viands  of  every 
kind ;  joints  were  '  roasted  to  cinders/  and  the 
enormous  pot  in  which  capons,  partridge,  ducks, 
turkeys  and  quails  stewed  together  would  hang  for 
ten  or  twelve  hours  over  the  fire.  Again,  if  in  the 
seventeenth  century  spices  were  not  so  grievously 
abused  as  they  had  been,  almost  every  dish,  what- 
ever its  composition,  was  drenched  with  one  or 
other  of  the  sickly  perfumes  of  which  the  Court  of 
Louis  Quatorze  reeked  eternally.  Roast  meats  were 
covered  with  a  scented  powder,  capons  were 
•  greased '  with  sugar-plums,  mackerel  was  cooked 
in  fennel,  pastry  was  steeped  in  musk,  walnuts 
were  eaten  with  rose-water,  and  hippo  eras  and 
every  other  drink  were  redolent  of  musk,  amber  or 
roses. 

From  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
nevertheless,  cookery  does  assuredly  begin  to  look 
something  like  an  art.  Allowance  being  made  for 
differences  of  taste  in  an  age  nearly  two  centuries 
and  half  earlier  than  our  own,  the  '  Cuisinier  Fran- 
cois '  of  Francois-Pierre  de  Lavarenne  (a  work  which 
I  know  at  second-hand  only)  seems  a  well-considered 


74  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and  even  an  erudite  treatise.  Between  1651  and 
1726,  says  M.  Franklin,  it  was  reprinted  eight  times 
at  least ;  and  the  amateur  wbo  cares  to  consult  it 
will  find  particulars  of  sixty-two  soups,  eighty-four 
entrees,  and  nineteen  ways  of  cooking  eggs.  The 
'  Maistre  d'Hostel '  of  Pierre  David  appeared  in  1659, 
his  'Le  Cuisinier'  in  1676,  and  Kobert's  'L'Art  de 
Bien  Traiter '  in  1674 ;  and  the  French  being  by 
this  time  as  prone  to  the  culinary  art  as  in  the  past 
they  had  been  averse  from  it,  the  four  masters 
enjoyed  a  vogue. 

Louis  XIV.  being  dead,  in  1715,  gluttony  was  no 
more  encouraged  in  the  seats  of  royalty.  One  knows 
how  the  Court  broke  loose  after  Louis  had  tottered 
into  his  grave,  what  shreds  were  made  of  those 
masks  of  piety  which  no  courtier  dared  put  off  in  the 
closing  years  of  the  reign,  what  saturnalia  of  Regent 
Orleans,  duchesa  De  Berri,  and  the  rest,  succeeded 
to  the  dreary  pomp  and  drearier  etiquette  of  the  ten 
o'clock  suppers  at  Versailles  or  the  Louvre  ;  but  in 
this  place  it  concerns  us  merely  to  note  that  towards 
the  close  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury all  the  arts  of  cuisine  and  table  began  to  be 
more  civil,  more  delicate,  more  gracious  ;  that  dinner 
began  to  be  a  meal  which  a  nice  taste  might  face 
without  repugnance  ;  and  the petits  soupers  of  Orleans 
(feasts  of  Yahoos  under  any  aspect  of  morals)  were 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  75 

the  first  fine  efforts  at  gastronomy.  From  them  we 
date  that  'exquisite  cuisine  which  was  presently 
without  a  rival  in  Europe.'  And  as  the  feast  ceased 
to  be  brutish,  mind  was  elevated,  and  wit  and  fancy 
came  into  their  own.  At  the  literary  dinner  which 
grew  to  be  a  'note'  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
which  still  awakens  memories  of  Buffon,  Helvetius, 
Quesnay,  La  Popelininiere,  Madame  Lambert, 
Madame  Geoffrin,  and  so  many  others,  keen  men  and 
clever  women  assembled  not  so  much  to  dine  as  to 
converse.  When  Madame  Geoffrin  (as  M,  Franklin 
observes)  could  invite  her  friends  to  '  a  pullet,  some 
spinach  and  an  omelette,'  it  is  evident  that  the  bill 
of  fare  was  no  longer  the  first  consideration.  The 
1  feast  of  reason '  encouraged  talk  on  high  and  daring 
topics,  speculation  was  not  frowned  on,  minds  began 
to  be  enfranchised  at  the  table;  hence  (such  an 
irony  is  there  in  things)  we  may  trace  even  to  the 
petit*  soupers  of  the  dissolute,  amiable  Regent  one  of 
the  first  causes  of  the  Revolution  ! 


II. 

Not  only  in  the  middle  ages,  but  far  into  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  in  some  instances  later,  it  was 
impolite  to  begin  dinner  without  washing  the  hands. 
The  first  Napoleon  kept  up  this  ancient  practice. 


76  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

The  mediaeval  usage  was  to  wash,  either  in  an  ante- 
chamber or  in  the  dining-hall,  before  sitting  down 
to  table ;  later,  the  offices  of  the  ewer  and  the 
napkin  were  discharged  by  youths,  who  served  the 
guests  in  their  places,  a  pretty  ceremony  which  may 
be  read  in  the  old  French  fashion-books.  The  meal 
was  seldom  begun  until  grace  had  been  pronounced, 
but  in  the  middle  ages  few  guests  were  sober  enough 
to  return  thanks  when  it  was  ended.  At  this  era, 
dishes  were  never  uncovered  until  everyone  was 
seated ;  a  rule  which  had  its  origin  in  the  mediaeval 
dread  of  poison.  To  the  same  origin  is  ascribed  the 
universal  practice  of  the  essaie ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
chief  servitor  tasted  the  food  before  any  of  the 
guests,  or  touched  it  with  a  talisman.  Agate,  the 
*  toad-stone,'  the  tongue  of  a  snake,  and,  above  all, 
the  horn  of  the  unicorn,  were  regarded  as  infallible 
detectives  in  the  matter  of  poison.  No  one,  to  be 
sure,  ever  saw  an  agate  sweat  blood  when  the  meat 
to  whioh  it  was  applied  had  been  tampered  with ; 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  '  toad-stone,'  and  no 
such  animal  as  the  '  unicorn ;'  yet  centuries  elapsed 
before  the  belief  in  their  virtues  was  abandoned. 
Until  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  the  case  containing 
these  sacred  objects  had  its  place  on  the  table  of 
Royalty.  The  King's  wine,  too,  was  always  tasted 
for  him  by  a  maitre  d'hdtel  or  servant  of  the  mouth, 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  77 

who  kept  for  this  purpose  a    little  cup  of  silver- 
gilt. 

Up  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  each  person  at 
table  dipped  his  spoon  into  the  common  bowl  or 
dish  ;  it  was  not  until  the  close,  or  near  the  close,  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  that  guests  took  soup  or 
meat  on  their  own  plates.  The  carver,  even  at  the 
table  of  Royalty,  held  in  his  left  hand  the  joint  or 
bird  which  he  was  carving  ;  and  when  he  had  sliced 
it  into  portions  of  an  equal  size,  the  fish  was  either 
placed  upon  the  board  or  handed  round,  and  the 
company  fell  to  work  forthwith  with  fingers  and 
teeth.  The  fork  had  scarcely  made  its  appearance, 
and  knives  were  rare  except  in  the  hands  of  the 
carvers.  Could  we  restore  for  half  an  hour  the 
dinner-table  of  old  France,  and  obtain  half  a  dozen 
instantaneous  photographs  of  a  royal  banquet  at  any 
era  between  the  reigns  of  Francis  I.  and  Louis 
Quatorze,  such  a  '  cataract  of  laughter '  would  be 
heard  as  might  disturb  the  serenity  of  Louis  in 
Paradise.  The  duchess,  her  napkin  tied  securely 
round  her  neck,  would  be  seen  mumbling  a  bone  ; 
the  noble  marquis  surreptitiously  scratching  himself; 
the  belle  marquise  withdrawing  her  spoon  from  her 
lips  to  help  a  neighbour  to  sauce  with  it ;  another 
fair  creature  scouring  her  plate  with  her  bread ;  a 
gallant  courtier  using  his  doublet  or  the  table-cloth 


78  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

as  a  towel  for  his  fingers ;  and  two  footmen  holding 
a  yard  of  damask  under  a  lady's  chin  while  she 
emptied  her  goblet  at  a  draught.  All  of  these  at 
one  era  or  another  were  the  usages  of  polite  society. 
During  a  feast  of  inordinate  length  it  was  sometimes 
necessary  to  substitute  a  clean  cloth  for  the  one 
which  the  carelessness  or  bad  manners  of  the  guests 
had  reduced  to  a  deplorable  condition. 

For  a  long  time  the  various  courses  were  served 
in  a  rather  bewildering  fashion ;  the  cook  might 
conceive  the  notion  of  sending  the  soup  up  after 
the  roast,  or  he  might  try  the  effect  upon  the 
company  of  serving  the  tart  before  the  game.  The 
mediseval  appetite  seems,  however,  to  have  been 
proof  against  these  and  'similar  fantasies ;  and  at  a 
much  later  date  it  was  customary  to  follow  the  soup 
with  eggs,  and  to  present  the  fish  towards  the  middle 
of  the  repast.  Truffles  were  regarded  as  a  '  species 
of  dessert.'  Polite  dinner-goers  cultivated  the  art 
of  peeling  fruit,  and  there  were  eighteen  ways  of 
peeling  pears  and  oranges. 

As  late  as  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
one  glass  or  goblet  did  duty  for  the  whole  table, 
and  this  in  the  houses  of  the  upper  and  wealthier 
classes.  It  did  not  stand  on  the  table,  but  was  in  the 
charge  of  a  servant,  who  filled  it  from  a  fountain 
or  carved   barrel  whenever  a   guest   called  for   a 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  79 

drink.  To  drink  correctly  was  to  lift  the  glass  with 
three  fingers  and  empty  it  at  a  draught,  without 
gurgling.  The  host's  charge  of  '  No  heel-taps !'  (if 
it  is  ever  heard  now-a-days)  is  a  survival  of  the  age 
when  manners  forbade  the  guest  to  leave  a  residue 
in  the  cup  which  his  neighbour  was  waiting  for. 
In  the  seventeenth  century  there  was  a  glass  for 
everyone,  but  the  bottle  had  not  reached  the  table. 
Its  progress  from  the  sideboard  to  the  table  occu- 
pied just  another  oentury  and  a  half;  1760  is  the 
date  at  which  the  guest  could  fill  his  glass  by 
stretching  out  his  hand.  Up  to  this  period,  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  was  not  incor- 
rect to  be  drunk  before  dinner  was  over.  Habit 
gave  the  licence  to  either  sex,  and  no  one  grudged 
a  lady  her  weakness  for  wine.  The  evidence  is  as 
plentiful  in  the  memoirs  as  in  the  plays.  For  the  . 
eighteenth  century  we  may  turn  to  Saint-Simon,  ) 
/©ucIosT^pr  the  Prinoess  Palatine.  'The  Duchesse 
de  Bourbon,'  says  the  princess,  •  can  drink  to  excess 
without  intoxicating  herself;  her  daughters  try  to 
follow  her  example,  but  are  soon  under  the  table/ 
In  another  letter :  '  Madame  de  Berri  drinks  the 
strongest  brandy  she  can  get.'  In  a  third :  '  Madame 
de  Montespan  and  her  eldest  daughter  can  drink 
remarkably  without  turning  a  hair.  I  saw  them  one 
day  taking  off  bumper  after  bumper  of  stiff  Italian 


80  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

wine,  and  thought  they  would  fall  under  the  table, 
but  they  might  as  well  have  been  drinking  water ' 
('  mais  o'6tait  pour  elles  comme  de  boire  de  l'eau.') 

In  the  matter  of  drinking,  the  example  of  the 
Court  seems  never  to  have  effected  much,  on  one 
side  or  the  other.     Under  a  sober  king  sobriety  was 
not  necessarily  the  fashion,  but  under   a  king  or 
regent  who  drank  unadvisedly  there  was  no  increase 
of  drunkenness.   [Francis   I.,   whose   tastes  lay  in 
/     another  direction,  starved,  whipped,  mutilated,  and 
banished    the    drunkard,   without    making  France 
soberTj   fLouis    XIII.  and  Louis  XIV.  were  as  ab- 
stemious as  Francis,  always  taking  their  wine  with 
waterA  ffhe  Regent  Orleans  was  seldom  sober,  and 
was  so  stupid  after  a  hard  night  that  he  could  be 
persuaded   to   sign   almost   any   document    in    the 
morning.")  Louis  XV.  was  intoxicated  as  often  as  a 
weak  man   could  be,  and   suffered  a   weak  man's 
penalities  for  his   excesses.     But  France,   all  this 
time,  was  drinking  to  its  own  taste,  quite  without 
reference  to  the  sobriety  or  indulgence  of  the  Court. 
Montaigne,  with  his  unfailing  good  sense,  con- 
demns the  sottish  habits  of  his  contemporaries  ('  a 
base  and  stupid  vice'),  but  adds  that   they  drink 
less  than  their  ancestors.     Stiff  topers  of  the  six- 
teenth   century   borrowed    from    the   Romans  the 
custom  of  toasting  the  health  of  a  mistress  in  as 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  81 

many  glasses  as  there  -were  letters  in  her  name,  and 
those  who  had  no  mistress  to  celebrate  would  drink 
in  like  manner  to  themselves. 

1  Si  le  boire  n'est  pas  bon 
Jean  simplement  j'auray  nom, 
Mais  si  c'est  beuvrage  idoine 
Mon  nom  sera  Marc  Antoine.' 

A  name  of  four  letters,  videlicet  four  glasses,  for  a 
scurvy  vintage ;  one  of  eleven  for  a  bottle  of  the 
best.  At  a  venture,  the  verse  may  be  Englished 
thus : — 

1  When  the  wine  I  drink  is  poor, 
Jack's  my  name  and  nothing  more  ; 
When  it's  good,  then  faith  I'll  be 
Ev'ry  whit  Mark  Antony.' 

Earlier  than  this,  doctors  of  medicine  had  asked 
gravely  whether  it  were  well  to  be  drunk,  and,  if  so, 
to  what  extent,  and  how  often.  Arnauld  de  Ville- 
neuve  concluded  that  *  there  is  undoubtedly  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  intoxication,  inasmuch  as  the 
results  which  usually  follow  do  certainly  purge  the 
body  of  noxious  humours  ('  des  humeurs  nuisibles '). 
His  patients  are,  nevertheless,  bidden  to  go  warily 
to  work  with  the  bottle,  to  content  themselves  with 
a  moderate  bout  ('  une  ivresse  l£gere '),  and,  in  a 
general  way,  not  to  get  drunk  more  than  once  in 

G 


W 


82  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

two  months.  But  science  should  be  chary  of  its 
indulgences,  for  this  was  read  as  meaning,  '  The 
doctor  says  we  ought  to  get  drunk.' 


III. 

If  the  middle  ages  had  an  eminent  notion  of 
luxury,  they  had  no  notion  whatever  of  comfort. 
The  normal  style  of  living  in  the  chateau  or  the 
town  house  was  not  to  be  inferred  from  the  profu- 
sion and  display  which  were  de  rigueur  on  a  feast 
day.  The  sideboard  was  not  always  laden  with 
plate,  nor  was  the  table  always  spread  in  the  great 
gothic  hall.  The  seigneur  much  preferred  to  dine 
in  his  kitchen,  and  did  so  as  a  rule.  If  the  ragout 
were  to  his  taste  (very  possibly  he  had  cooked  and 
seasoned  it  himself),  he  did  not  boggle  at  eating  it 
out  of  earthenware  or  pewter.  His  bed-room  he 
reckoned  equally  as  good  a  place  to  dine  in  as  the 
kitchen  (Louis  XIV.,  when  he  dined  au  petit  couvert, 
was  generally  served  in  his  bed-chamber),  and  the 
long  and  lofty  salle  seems  seldom  to  have  been 
requisitioned  except  on  the  occasion  of  a  lavish 
banquet.  If  its  structure  were  ornamental,  it  was 
coldly  and  poorly  furnished ;  but  tapestries,  and  the 
sparkle  of  gold  and  silver  plate,  and  the  glint  of 
rushes  and  green  boughs  on  the  floor,  with  flowers 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  83 

strewn  among  them,  would  count  for  something  in 
decorative  effect.  The  guests  sat  only  at  one  side 
of  the  table,  which  was  long  and  narrow  and  placed 
against  the  wall.  There  were  no  chairs,  merely  a 
lane  (whence  banquet)  or  bench,  often  raised  some 
distance  from  the  floor,  and  surmounted  by  a  carved 
canopy  for  guests  of  rank.  The  oval  or  oblong 
table,  with  chairs  for  the  company,  did  not  come 
into  fashion  until  the  seventeenth  century,  at  which 
period  also  the  salle-a-manger,  or  dining-room  proper, 
first  received  its  name,  and  was  distinguished  from 
the  mlon  or  drawing-room. 

Although  carpets  and  tapestry  were  known  in 
France  at  least  as  early  as  the  thirteenth  century,  it 
was  more  usual  at  that  time,  and  at  least  three  cen- 
turies later,  to  hang  the  walls  and  strew  the  floors 
with  rushes  and  fragrant  herbs,  freshly-cut  boughs 
and  flowers.  At  summer  banquets  the  guests  of 
both  sexes  often  decked  their  hair  with  garlands. 
Carpets  on  the  floor  were  little  seen  until  the  seven- 
teenth century,  that  era  of  so  many  changes  touch- 
ing the  art  of  dining. 

Lighting  was  primitive  and  picturesque  a  hundred 
years  after  this.  A  great  seigneur  giving  a  lordly 
feast  would  line  the  walls  of  his  salle  with  lacqueys, 
each  armed  with  a  flaming  torch,  which,  by  the  way, 
must  have  been  not  a  little  dangerous,  and  most  un- 

g2 


84  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

commonly  warm.  The  amphitryon  of  lesser  rank 
was  fain  to  light  his  board  with  reeking  dips,  or  an 
oil  lamp  which,  if  it  shone  but  weakly,  was  exceed- 
ingly redoubtable  as  a  stench-giver.  At  the  dawn 
even  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  wax  candle 
marked  some  degree  of  wealth. 

The  table-cloth  dates  from  about  the  middle  of 
the  twelfth  century,  the  table-napkin  from  about  the 
middle  of  the  fifteenth.  During  the  Renaissance 
napery  in  rich  houses  was  becoming  very  dainty  ; 
somewhat  later,  the  serviette  was  usually  perfumed ; 
and  in  1639,  one  Matthias  Giegher,  in  the  flower  of 
his  genius,  wrote  a  treatise  in  Italian  upon  the  twen- 
ty-seven ways  in  which  it  might  be  folded.  Here  it 
took  the  form  of  a  shell,  here  of  a  mitre,  here  of  a 
dog  with  a  collar,  here  of  a  cross  of  Lorraine,  and 
here  of  a  sucking-pig,  as  the  pantler's  taste  inspired 
him.  Louis  XIV.,  whose  taste  was  most  correct 
when  simplest,  had  his  napkin  rolled  in  the  form  of 
a  baton.  In  winter  a  considerate  host  set  on  the 
napkins  warm.  Arthur  Young,  in  his  '  Travels  in 
France'  (1787-89)  comments  on  the  fineness  of  the 
linen,  and  remarks  that  whereas  the  English,  even 
those  in  easy  circumstances,  dispense  readily  enough 
with  the  table-napkin,  the  very  carpenter  in  France 
will  have  one  placed  beside  his  fork.  Montaigne, 
writing  very  much  earlier,  tells  us  that  he  can  get  on 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  86 

very  well  without  a  tablecloth,  but  not  so  nicely  in 
default  of  a  crisp  white  napkin. 

Everyone  at  this  day,  observes  M.  Franklin,  may 
adorn  his  table  with  linen  as  fine  as  Louis  XIV.'s,  but 
the  supreme  glory  of  the  old  French  board,  its  ser- 
vices of   gold  and  silver    plate,  vanished,  or  very 
nearly  vanished,  under  the  terror  and  pillage  of  the 
Revolution.     Services  of  silver  and  silver-gilt,  and 
rich  examples  of  the  goldsmith's  art,  for  the  mere 
decoration  of  table  or  sideboard,  were  common  ob- 
jects in  all  substantial  houses  of  the  Renaissance ; 
but  genuine  pieces  of  that  date,    as  the  collector 
knows,  are  extremely  rare  in  the  modern  market.  If 
a  snuff-box,  not  of  the  oldest  as  such  curios  go,  can 
be  sold  in  Bond  Street  to-day  for  two  thousand  or 
three  thousand  pounds,  what  sum  would  be  asked  at 
Christie's  for  an  epergne  of  the  sixteenth  century  ? 
But  not  all  of  these  treasures,  not  by  any  means  all 
of  them,  were  swallowed  by  the  Revolution.     When 
gold  and  silver  plate  was  a  form  of  capital,  it  was 
sold  for  melting  at  the   owner's  need.     When   the 
rage    of  buying  it  had  made  serious   inroads  upon 
specie,  and  coin  was  lacking  while  plate  abounded, 
the  manufacture  was  forbidden  to  the   goldsmiths, 
and  the  Crown  compelled  or  bribed  both  priest  and 
noble  to  send  to  the  melting-pot  their  coffers,  chali- 
ces and  dishes  of  precious  metal.     Treasures  innum- 


86  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

erable  were  sacrificed,  in  this  way,  and  what  remained 
when  the  Revolution  broke  was  preserved  from  that 
cataclysm  in  morsels. 

But  these  fine  articles,  as  has  been  observed,  were 
less  for  use  than  for  display.  With  a  score  of  silver 
plates  upon  the  sideboard  the  company  at  dinner 
were  served  on  tranchoirs,  or  trenchers  of  brown  bread, 
from  the  fifteenth  to  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  This  custom  was  to  the  gain  of  the  poor,  for 
the  thick  slices  of  bread,  soaked  through  with  the 
juices  and  gravies  of  the  meats,  were  gathered  in 
baskets  and  distributed  as  alms. 

Meagre  as  was  the  couvert  or  table-service  during 
so  many  ages  people  of  fashion,  when  the  knife 
had  come  into  common  use,  had  special  knives  for 
special  seasons.  Of  this  curious  practice  the  proofs 
are  furnished  in  old  books  of  accounts,  memoranda, 
and  elsewhere.  Thus,  the  elegant  devotee  would 
use  in  Lent  a  knife  with  an  ebony  haft,  on  Easter 
Day  a  knife  with  a  handle  of  ivory,  on  the  day  of 
Pentecost  a  knife  of  which  the  hilt  was  of  ivory  and 
ebony  combined.  This  refinement  was  known  in  the 
middle  ages,  and  may  have  been  of  long  duration. 
To  make  a  present  of  a  knife  was  unlucky,  and,  ac- 
cording to  a  fifteenth  century  proverb,  to  offer  one 
to  a  sweetheart  was  to  ensure  the  loss  of  her  love. 

At  what  hour  did  old  France  dine  ?     The  hour 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  87 

seems  to  have  changed  often,  as  it  has  done  with  us, 
and  the  season  of  the  year,  class  habits,  and  the  re- 
quirements of  different  callings,  modified  it  frequent- 
ly. Hours  of  work  for  the  toiler  were  always  long 
in  old  France,  and  in  Paris  in  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries  labourers  and  artisans  began  at 
dawn,  and  were  seldom  free  before  six  in  the  even- 
ing in  winter  and  nine  in  summer.  For  these  classes, 
therefore,  the  last  meal  of  the  day  would  never  be 
earlier  than  six  p.m. ;  during  a  large  portion  of  the 
year  not  earlier  than  nine.  Between  the  thirteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  according  to  the  surmise  of 
M.  Franklin,  the  classes  more  easily  circumstanced 
took  a  light  first  meal,  the  dejeuner,  between  six  and 
ten,  dined  at  about  one,  and  supped  between  seven 
and  eight.  Montaigne  rose  at  seven  (a  rather  late 
hour  for  the  sixteenth  century),  'dined'  at  eleven 
and  supped  at  seven.  When  Louis  XIV.  came  to 
the  throne,  the  polite  dinner-hour  was  from  eleven 
to  twelve,  and  the  supper  hour  between  six  and 
seven.  The  king  himself  dined  at  one  and  supped 
at  ten,  but  during  Louis'  reign  this  late  hour  for 
supper  seems  never  to  have  been  imitated  beyond 
the  Court.  Towards  1730  it  became  the  fashion  to 
dine  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  sup  between 
ten  and  eleven. 

With  a  change  of  names  for  the  meals  themselves, 


88  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  hours  in  vogue  in  Paris  at  the  present  day  were 
universally  adopted  among  the  upper  classes  at  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  or  the  beginning  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  The  old  dinner  became  the  modern 
dejeuner,  and  supper  was  transformed  into  dinner. 
Observe,  however,  that  it  was  royalty  and  the  courtly 
and  wealthy  classes  who  restricted  themselves  to 
two  meals  a  day  (with  an  occasional  pick-me-up,  to 
be  sure)  ;  below  the  upper  ten,  the  rule  seems  to 
have  been  as  many  meals  as  the  larder  would  furnish, 
or  as  could  be  squeezed  in  between  the  working- 
hours.  The  comfortable  middle  classes  allowed 
themselves  four  meals  and  five  in  the  day. 

But  there  were  always  the  fasts  to  be  reckoned 
with,  and  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  realise  in  this 
age  what  immense  importance  attached  to  these 
observances,  how  stringently  the  church  enforced 
them,  and  what  inconvenience  and  privation  they 
entailed.  The  mediaeval  catholic  intent  on  heaven 
was  enjoined  to  fast  (1)  three  times  every  week,  on 
Wednesday,  Thursday,  and  Friday ;  (2)  on  the  even- 
ing before  any  great  festival  of  the  church  ;  (3) 
three  days  at  each  of  the  periods  called  the  Quatre- 
Temps,  which  came  in  March,  June,  September,  and 
December:  (4)  during  the  whole  of  Lent,  Sundays 
excepted.  For  people  who  had  to  attend  as  usual 
to  the  daily  business  of  life,  that  is  to  say  for  the 


OLD   PARIS  AT  TABLE  89 

majority  of  the  population,  the  fast  was  rigorous 
enough.  One  meal  in  the  twenty-four  hours  was  the 
strict  rule  ;  it  was  to  be  taken  in  the  evening  after 
vespers,  and  to  consist,  if  possible,  of  bread  and  water 
only.  At  need,  vegetables  might  be  added,  but 
meat  of  every  sort  was  rigidly  forbidden,  together 
with  all  descriptions  of  animal  food  and  wine. 
Further,  the  devout  were  bidden  to  join  prayers  and 
alms  to  their  fasts,  to  give  to  the  poor  the  value  of 
the  food  they  abstained  from,  to  wear  none  but 
sober  colours,  to  put  all  pleasures  aside,  and  to 
observe  the  strictest  continence.  In  the  harshest 
times  of  the  middle  ages  the  fast  was  binding  upon 
all  males  above  twelve  years  of  age,  and  all  females 
above  fourteen ;  but  when  the  rule  began  to  be 
relaxed  a  little,  both  sexes  were  exempted  below  the 
age  of  twenty-one.  Next,  the  evening  meal  was 
set  back  to  noon,  and  permission  was  given  for  ■  une 
16gere  collation '  after  vespers.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  dispensations  for  milk  and  butter  were 
obtained  without  difficulty ;  and  in  the  century 
following,  when  corn  was  scarce  or  the  fishing-boats 
were  unable  to  put  in,  the  Archbishop  solemnly 
deoreed  the  use  of  eggs,  and  Parliament  as  solemnly 
passed  a  law  to  authorise  their  sale  in  Lent.  But  in 
all  seasons  of  enforced  abstinence  the  use  of  flesh  in 
any  form  continued  to  be  an  act  of  treason  against 


90  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  faith,  and  conviction  brought  condign  punish- 
ment. Imprisonment  or  the  pillory  was  the  penalty, 
and  Brantome  mentions  a  woman  who,  for  having 
eaten  a  little  meat  in  Lent,  was  sentenced  to  appear 
in  the  streets  of  Paris  with  a  ham  and  a  quarter  of 
lamb  suspended  from  her  neck. 

It  is  easily  imagined  that  persons  who  were  not 
sustained  by  the  most  ardent  faith  suffered  abomin- 
ably under  the  tyrannous  code  of  the  fast.  After  a 
week  of  Lent,  the  sight  and  smell  of  fish  were  scarcely 
endured,  and  cooks  resorted  to  the  most  ludicrous 
devices  to  disguise  it  as  meat  or  game.  During 
Holy  Week,  when  even  fish  was  banished  from  the 
tables  of  the  unco'  guid,  similar  illusions  were 
practised  with  vegetables.  The  high  feeding  and 
hard  drinking  of  the  jour  gras  were  doubtless  often 
a  reaction  from  the  unnatural  rigours  of  the  jour 
maigre. 

I  have  mentioned  Louis  XIV.  as  dining  in  public. 
The  public  dinner  was  an  old  tradition  of  the 
French  court,  which  lasted  until  traditions  of  every 
sort  were  overthrown  by  the  Revolution.  The 
people  had  the  privilege  of  strolling  through 
the  palace  pretty  much  as  they  pleased  at  the 
dinner-hour,  and  of  staring  at  Majesty  as  it  fed. 
The  custom  was  a  nuisanoe  or  otherwise,  according 
to  the  view  that  Majesty  might  take.     Louis  XIV., 


OLD  PARIS  AT  TABLE  91 

who  was  by  no  means  so  stiff  with  his  people  as 
with  his  courtiers,  seems  rather    to  have   enjoyed 
the  admiration  which  his  enormous  appetite  never 
failed  to  excite  among  the  plebs ;  and  in  the  suc- 
ceeding reign,  the  curious  would  stand   on  tiptoe 
outside  the  line  of  nobles  and  gentlemen  in  waiting, 
to  see  Louis  XV.  send  the  top  of  an  egg  flying  with 
a  stroke  of  his  knife.     Marie  Antoinette,  often  as 
she  dined  in  public,  detested  it  cordially,  and  ate 
but  a  mouthful   until  she   had  retired  to  her  own 
apartments. 

'  Anybody  decently  dressed  was  allowed  in,'  says 
Madame  Campan,  '  and  at  dinner-time  you  would 
find  the  stairs  crowded  with  honest  folk,  who,  when 
they  had  seen  the  Dauphine  eat  her  soup,  would  go 
to  watch  the  Princess  at  their  bouilli,  and  then 
hurry  off  to  see  Mesdames  at  dessert.  It  is  a 
spectacle  which  particularly  delights  the  country 
cousin.' 

Casanova  was  a  privileged  spectator  on  an  oc- 
casion when  the  Queen  dined  alone.  As  she  took 
her  seat,  a  dozen  courtiers  ranged  themselves  in 
a  semi-circle  some  ten  paces  from  the  table.  Her 
majesty  ate  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  plate,  and 
took  no  notice  of  anyone  until  a  dish  was  brought 
on  which  seemed  to  please  her.  Then  she  looked 
up  for  a  moment,  and  glanced  round  the   circle,. 


92  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

apparently  seeking  someone  to  whom  she  might 
communicate  her  satisfaction.  Presently  she  found 
him,  and  said : 

■  "  M.  de  Lowendal !" 

'A  very  grand-looking  man  stepped  from  the 
circle,  bowed,  and  said : 

'"Madame?" 

' "  I  believe,  monsieur,"  said  her  majesty,  "  that 
this  is  a  fricassee  of  chicken." 

'  "  I  believe  so,  your  majesty." 

'This  response  uttered,  in  the  gravest  tone 
imaginable,  M.  de  Lowenthal  stepped  backwards 
into  the  circle,  and  the  Queen  finished  her  dinner 
without  another  word.' 

Thus  sadly  did  one  eat  with  etiquette. 


93 


TWO  ■  CIVILITIES  ' 

Is  it  necessary  to  say,  by  way  of  preface,  that  the 
little  treatises  which  in  French  are  called  '  Civilites ' 
correspond  to  our  manuals  of  '  Polite  Society,'  of 
'  Correct  Conversation,'  of  '  Behaviour,'  and  so 
forth  ?  The  English  opuscule  is  lightly  esteemed  by 
superior  reviewers  (perhaps  the  French  one  of  the 
present  day  is  not  thought  much  of  by  reviewers 
on  the  Temps  and  the  Ddbats),  but  the  next  and 
succeeding  centuries  will  divert  themselves  over  it, 
and  the  first  historian  who  can  be  induced  to  take 
a  proper  view  of  his  functions  will  find  it  a  useful 
sidelight  upon  social  history.  The  best,  the  most 
entertaining,  and  the  most  informing  parts  of  the 
historian's  business  continue  to  be  done  for  him  by 
the  humble  writer  of  monographs,  on  subjects  which 
are  neglected  or  glozed  in  the  text-books  as  in  the 
tomes.     Still,  one  has  the  satisfaction  of  observing 


U  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

that,  whereas  '  history '  is  little  read  by  the  general, 
the  vogue  of  the  monograph  increases. 

The  old  '  Civilites ' — those  of  the  sixteenth, 
seventeenth,  and  eighteenth  centuries  (there  are 
earlier  ones,  of  course ;  and  the  '  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose '  is,  in  very  many  parts,  a  '  Civilite '  of  the 
fourteenth  century) — are  becoming  rare ;  but  they 
are  not  impossible  as  '  finds,'  and  cheap  finds,  on 
the  bookstalls  of  the  Paris  Quais,  and  now  and 
again  a  '  Civilite" '  crops  up  in  the  catalogue  of  a 
French  dealer.  Of  the  two  that  are  before  me,  one 
is  dated  1695  and  the  other  1782.  They  are  both 
occupied  with  the  civilities  of  the  table,  and  one 
may  see  in  them,  with  no  great  trouble  of  reading 
between  the  lines,  precisely  how  Paris  dined  in  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  There  are 
differences  between  the  two  treatises,  but  they  are 
not  important ;  and  the  sage  who  writes  only  seven 
years  before  the  Revolution  is  still  hammering  away 
at  the  same  points  of  etiquette  which  engaged  his 
predecessor.  At  the  very  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  it  is  still  necessary  to  remind  your  host 
that  he  should  not  chastise  his  servants  at  table, 
and  the  guest  that  if  he  swallows  his  wine  too  rapidly 
he  may  choke  himself,  'which  is  impolite  and  in- 
convenient.' 

In  the  eighteenth  century  (and  within  eighteen 


TWO  'CIVILITIES1  95 

years  of  the  nineteenth)  you  sit  down  to  table  with 
your  hat  on — removing  it  only  if  your  health  is 
toasted  by  '  a  person  of  quality,'  or  if  you  are  con- 
strained to  rise  before  the  meal  is  over — and  every 
'  Civilite '  enjoins  upon  you  to  go  to  dinner  with 
your  hands  clean.  Apparently  there  is  only  one 
towel,  for  the  '  Civilite" '  requests  that  '  a  dry  corner 
be  left  for  the  person  who  is  to  use  it  afterwards.' 
Grace  being  said,  and  the  guests  tabled,  there  is  a 
whole  code  for  the  employment  of  the  napkin.  It 
is  to  be  unfolded  in  a  leisurely  way,  and  not  as  if 
the  guests  were  in  a  hurry  to  pounce  upon  the 
viands.  It  is  to  be  spread  over  the  knees,  and 
carried  up  to  the  chin.  You  may  wipe  your  knife 
and  spoon  on  it  after  every  course,  but  the  napkin 
is  not  to  be  used  as  a  pocket-handkerohief,  nor  as  a 
toothpick.  It  is  equally  an  impoliteness  to  wipe 
your  face  or  to  soour  your  plate  with  it. 

The  first  dish  being  served,  it  is  recommended  to 
the  guest  4  not  to  gaze  at  it  as  if  he  wished  it  all 
for  himself,'  not  to  thrust  out  his  plate  ■  as  if  it  were 
impossible  for  him  to  await  his  turn  in  decency,' 
and  ■  on  no  account  to  smack  his  lips.'  The  first 
dish  is  a  potage,  in  which  there  are  probably  some 
solids  floating.  If  one  of  these  burns  your  mouth 
badly,  •  make  as  little  fuss  over  it  as  possible,*  re- 
move it  quietly,  with  your  napkin  over  your  mouth, 


96  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and  '  pass  it  quickly  behind  your  back '  to  the 
waiter.  'Politeness  requires  that  these  things  be 
done  politely,  but  you  are  not  expected  to  commit 
suicide  '  ('  mais  elle  ne  pretend  pas  que  Ton  soit 
homicide  de  soymeme '). 

With  the  arrival  of  the  solids  on  the  table,  the 
rules  for  the  polite  diner-out  need  a  little  explanation, 
for  at  first  sight  they  seem  to  be  addressed  to  a 
dinner-party  of  savages.  What,  for  instance,  should 
one  make  of  the  following : — '  Nothing  is  more 
improper  than  for  the  guest  to  lick  his  fingers,  or  to 
wipe  them  on  the  tablecloth  or  the  bread.'  This  to 
the  raffint  who  sups  habitually  with  royalty  !  But 
the  truth  and  the  explanation  are,  that  until  the 
seventeenth  century  was  well  advanced  everybody 
in  France  ate  with  his  fingers.  It  was  so  at  the 
'  magnificent '  Court  of  Francis  I.,  at  the  Courts  of 
Henri  II.  and  Louis  XIII. ;  and  Louis  XIV.,  the 
glass  of  regal  fashion,  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
platter  like  the  trooper  feeding  in  camp.  Touching 
this  matter,  there  was  but  one  point  of  difference 
between  the  tables  of  the  great  and  those  of  the 
unlearned:  at  the  former,  you  advanced  three 
fingers  delicately  to  the  dish,  and  took  a  morsel 
quickly  at  hazard ;  at  the  latter,  you  went  a-hunting 
in  the  dish  till  you  had  made  a  prize  of  your 
favourite  piece. 


TWO  'CIVILITIES'  97 

Observe  that  the  fork  was  not  unknown  in  mediae- 
val France,  but  in  those  days  it  was  rather  admired 
as  a  work  of  art  than  polished  for  the  uses  of  the 
dinner-table.  The  dandies  and  mignons  of  the  de- 
praved Court  of  Henri  III.  were  the  first  to  use  it  in 
the  modern  style,  and  there  is  private  mention  of  a 
proposal  to  poison  the  king  by  means  of  a  hollow 
fork,  from  the  prongs  of  which  the  liquid  should 
trickle  into  his  plate.  But  the  innovation  was  '  tres 
mal  recue,'  and  the  moralists  proclaimed  it  indecent. 
From  the  seventeenth  oentury,  nevertheless,  the  ad- 
vance of  the  fork  (which  the  savage  finds  in  the 
pronged  twig,  as  he  finds  the  bowl  in  the  gourd  and 
the  plate  in  the  broad  leaf  and  the  shell)  may  be  dated ; 
but  the  old  habit  clings,  and  the  '  Civilite '  of  1695 
is  still  admonishing  the  guest  that  he  must  not  lick 
his  fingers  or  wipe  them  on  the  bread,  and  the  '  Civi- 
lite" '  of  1782  is  still  dinning  into  the  ears  of  the  ele- 
gant that  '  viands  are  served  with  the  fork  and  not 
with  the  hand.'  There  are  similar  injunctions  or 
prohibitions  as  to  the  licking  of  the  spoon,  and  these 
again  are  echoes  from  the  era  when  each  guest  dip- 
ped his  private  spoon  into  the  tureen,  and  when,  in 
consequence,  it  was  recommended  not  to  lick  that 
instrument  before  plunging  it  in  a  second  time.  The 
brilliant  notion  of  the  ladle  is  due  to  a  certain  Due 
de  Montausier,  and  that  reformer  was  set  down  as  a 

H 


98  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

person   who    sought   too    much   refinement    at  the 
board. 

Other  rules  as  to  eating,  with  which  the  '  Civilites ' 
bristle,  surprise  at  this  day  by  their  seeming  naivete \ 
Avoid  putting  a  second  morsel  into  the  mouth  be- 
fore the  first  is  swallowed. — It  is  improper  to  make 
two  mouthfuls  of  one   spoonful. — Persons  of  good 
breeding   never  swallow  without    masticating. — If 
the  plate  before  you  is  not  quite  clean,  do  not  scrape 
it  with  your  fingers ;  ask  for  another. — It  is  impossi- 
ble to  admire  the  guest  who  regards  his  neighbours 
with  a  sidelong  glance  to  see  if  their  plates  are  better 
filled  than  his. — Do  not  try  to  eat  soup  with  a  fork. — 
The  plate  should  not  be  scraped  with  the  spoon  or 
fork  as  if  the  guest  expected  never  to  dine  again. — 
Make  as  little  noise  as  possible  in  swallowing. — Do 
not  pile  up  your  plate  till  it  will  hold  no  more. — Do 
not  on  any  account  clutch  your  plate  with  your  left 
hand,  as  if  you  feared  that  someone  would  snatch  it 
from  you. — Meat  should  not  be  dipped  in  the  salt- 
cellar or  the  mustard-pot ;  take  a  little  salt  and  mus- 
tard on  your  plate. — No  one  of  good  breeding  beats 
a  bone  on  the  table,  or  shakes  it,  to  extract  the 
marrow ;  it  is  better  to  leave  the  marrow  alone. 

It  would  seem  to  have  been  no  less  necessary  to 
instruct  the  guest  as  to  what  he  should  and  should 
not  say  at  table  on  the  subject  of  the  viands  that 


TWO   'CIVILITIES'  99 

were  served  to  him.  Guard  against  a  too-candid 
criticism,  is  the  perennial  counsel  of  the  sage.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  host  seeks  your  voice  as  to  the 
dish  that  is  before  you,  '  you  will  then  reply  cheer- 
fully and  politely,  and  as  advantageously  as  possible.' 
But  '  there  is  no  occasion  to  launch  out  into  com- 
plaints, as,  that  the  dish  contains  too  much  pepper 
or  too  much  salt,  or  is  too  hot  or  too  cold,  or  not 
properly  served.  Such  discourses  are  liable  to  give 
pain  to  the  host,  who  is  usually  not  to  blame,  and 
who  has  perhaps  not  noticed  that  anything  is  wrong 
with  the  dish.'  An  opposite  fault  which  the  '  Civilite  ' 
is  at  pains  to  correct  is  '  the  breaking  out  into  ex- 
travagant praise  of  every  dish  that  is  placed  on  the 
table.  The  person  who  does  this  will  always  be  set 
down  as  too  much  '  sujet  a  son  ventre.' 

For  wine  and  drinking,  there  is  another  set  of  pre- 
scripts. In  the  '  Civilites '  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury you  will  generally  read  that  it  is  proper  and 
preferable  to  take  off  your  glass  at  a  draught.  This 
counsel  glances  at  the  epoch  when  one  glass  served 
the  whole  table,  in  which  circumstances  it  was  not 
polite  to  leave  a  heel-tap  for  your  neighbour.  Up  to  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  even  in  good 
company,  the  host  and  his  guests  had  rarely  more  1  k 
than  a  single  glass  between  them,  and  when  a  lady 
drank  it  was  customary  for  an  attendant  to  stand  at 

h2 


100  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

either  side  of  her,  holding  a  napkin  under  her  chin. 
In  the  early  seventeenth  century  it  was  only  at  the 
tables  of  the  wealthy  that  every  guest  had  his  glass, 
and  at  this  date  the  glasses  were  not  placed  on  the 
table,  as  with  us,  but  ranged  on  a  sideboard,  so  that 
you  must  call  for  drink  at  your  need.  The  glass 
found  its  place  at  the  guest's  right  hand  not  until 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  by  which  time 
it  had  become  a  mark  of  ill-breeding  to  empty  it  at 
the  first  essay,  to  blow  out  the  cheeks  in  drinking, 
to  gurgle  loudly,  or  to  set  the  beaker  down  with  a 
snort  of  satisfaction. 

Lastly,  the  '  Civilite'  exhorts  the  man  of  polish  not 
to  scratch  himself  in  company,  not  to  snuff  the  can- 
dle with  his  fingers,  not  to  blow  in  his  soup,  not  to 
return  the  meat  to  the  dish  after  smelling  it,  not  to 
talk  with  his  mouth  full,  and  not  to  pocket  the 
fruit  at  dessert. 


101 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  INN 

Master  Gonin  was  a  legendary  wit,  whose  pleasan- 
tries have  a  relish  in  them  still.  Once  on  a  time, 
coming  to  the  town  of  Blois,  he  took  note  of  a  wood- 
en cross  planted  between  two  inns.  '  Behold,'  said 
Maitre  Gonin,  •  a  cross  well  placed,  for  on  either  side 
stands  a  thief!' 

There,  in  an  epigram,  is  the  character  of  the 
French  mediaeval  inn. 

The  wolfish  host,  on  the  watch  for  prey,  stands  at 
his  threshold,  and  chants  in  a  curious  sing-song  the 
virtues  of  his  hostelry : 

Ci  a  bon  vin  fres  et  novel, 
Ca  d'Aucoire,  ca  de  Soissons, 
Pain  et  char,  et  vin  et  poissons ; 
Ce'enz  fet  bon  despendre  argent, 
Ostel  i  a  a  toute  gent, 
Ceenz  fet  moult  bon  hebergier. 


102  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

This,  in  antique  French,  is  an  advertisement  of  no 
little  humour :  they  understood  the  graceful  art  of 
unveracity  in  their  commerce  even  then.  For  the 
landlord's  good  fresh  wine  of  Aucoire  or  of  Soissons 
was  most  probably  known  to  his  customers  aspiquette, 
— in  English,  the  poor  creature  '  swipes  ;'  his  best 
fare  was  cow-beef  or  hog's  flesh,  with  hard  bread 
and  half-cooked  vegetables ;  and  this  ungrateful 
cheer  he  would  serve  you  with  a  flourish  on  a  bare 
and  greasy  board,  in  the  dark  and  sour  den  which 
was  the  salle ;  while,  if  you  shared  the  feast  with 
other  guests,  you  also  shared  with  them  the  one  nap- 
kin which  represented  the  napery  of  the  establish- 
ment. By  and  bye  you  might  have  need  to  ask 
yourself  whether  you  could  tell  cogged  dice  from 
honest  ones  after  drinking ;  and  later,  when  some 
penniless  braggart,  deolaring  that  his  purse  had  been 
slit,  proposed  to  fight  the  landlord  for  his  score,  you 
might  have  occasion  to  defend  yourself  in  a  scuffle 
with  the  light  out.  '  Ceenz  fet  moult  bon  hebergier :' 
('  First-rate  lodging  within.')  There  was  humour  in 
that  advertisement. 

Given  good  wine,  for  it  was  not  all  piquette,  the 
traveller  drank  his  fill  cheaply ;  for  in  mediaeval 
t/  France  the  price  of  wine  was  absurdly  low  in  com- 
parison with  that  of  bread,  meat,  fish,  or  poultry. 
Poultry,  indeed,  was  a  dish  for  the  king's  table  on 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIJEVAL  INN  103 

high  days,  a  single  fowl  costing,  it  is  said,  nearly 
two  hundred  francs.  Chilperic,  seeking  to  appease 
the  anger  of  Bishop  Gregory  of  Tours,  invites  him 
to  dinner,  and  on  the  prelate's  refusal,  begs  that  he 
will  at  least  condescend  to  taste  a  soup  of  which 
poultry  shall  be  the  chief  ingredient.  But,  dear  or 
cheap,  the  monks,  who  have  bequeathed  us  an  im- 
perishable tradition  of  gormandizing,  could  generally 
find  a  fowl  for  the  pot ;  and  legend  remarks  that 
they  salved  their  consciences  over  it  on  fast-days 
with  the  argument  that  as  birds  and  fishes  had  been 
created  on  the  same  day  they  might  be  of  the  same 
species. 

The  very  earliest  records  of  the  old  French  inn 
show  it  a  parlous  refuge  for  the  genuine  traveller, 
and  a  perfectly  ideal  shelter  for  villainry  of  every 
sort.  Mine  host  had  a  heart  for  every  subject  of  the 
king  who  loved  darkness  better  than  the  light.  What 
place  was  best  to  plan  a  murder  ?  The  inn.  Where 
safest  to  carry  the  proceeds  of  a  robbery  ?  The  inn. 
Where  were  simpletons  to  be  drugged  and  fleeced, 
rich  purses  to  be  cut  from  defenceless  merchants, 
stolen  girls  to  be  hidden,  couriers  with  letters  to  be 
waylaid,  knocked  on  the  head  and  rifled?  Above  all 
places  in  his  majesty's  dominions,  in  the  inn.  When 
Foulques,  Archbishop  of  Ilheims,  was  to  be  assassi- 
nated, it  was  from  an  inn  that  the  murderers  set  out ; 


101  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and,  in  his  capacity  of  '  fence,'  or  receiver  of  stolen 
goods,  it  was  to  an  innkeeper  that  the  plunderers  of 
the  basilica  of  Saint  Martin  hurried  with  the  booty. 
Mine  host  was  the  natural  accomplice  of  every 
crooked  wight  whose  hands  were  stained  with  blood 
or  heavy  with  illicit  gains. 

At  the  first,  mediaeval  France  patronised  the  public 
inn  somewhat  sparingly.  The  national  traditions  of 
hospitality,  seigneurial  and  monastic,  were  still  not 
quite  extinct ;  and  the  inn  begins  where  hospitality 
leaves  off.  The  middle  classes,  the  small  farmers, 
and  the  country  folk  in  general,  got  drunk  within 
their  own  doors  on  week-nights,  and  gave  their  cus- 
tom to  the  inn  on  Sundays.  In  the  early  middle 
ages,  the  inn  was  never  the  nightly  resort  of  any 
decent  class.  The  '  decent  classes,'  tired  of  drinking 
at  home  between  Monday  and  Saturday,  swarmed  to 
the  inn  of  a  Sunday  for  their  one  social  bout  of  the 
week  ;  but  they  were  never  seen  there  on  working 
days. 

There  was,  however,  one  source  of  custom  which 
never  failed  the  innkeeper  through  the  dark  extent 
of  the  middle  ages.  He  never  lacked  the  patron- 
age of  the  monks.  The  mediaeval  church  had  a 
patron  saint  for  every  vice  that  came  in  fashion,  and 
the  indulgence  of  Saint  Martin  covered  the  excesses 
of  every  tippler  in  holy  orders.     The  monk  who 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIAEVAL  INN  105 

could  not  drink  securely  in  cloisters,  took  Saint  Mar- 
tin's guidance  to  the  nearest  inn,  and  put  to  their 
best,  when  the  dice  came  out,  the  sharpest  tricksters 
at  the  table.  As  early  as  847,  Councils  of  the  Church 
were  busy  with  the  scandals  of  monks  in  inns,  and  a 
forty  days'  penance  was  imposed  upon  every  priest 
who  went  home  sick  at  night  ('  qui  aura  vomi  a  la 
suite  d'un  exces  de  table ').  But  the  vicious  church 
of  a  vicious  age  had  its  compromise  for  every  vice 
that  was  in  vogue ;  and  the  monk  who  kept  his  Lent 
came  lightly  off  for  his  frolic  at  the  tavern.  '  The- 
ologically drunk,'  the  offending  priest,  taken  una- 
wares, had  an  easy  retort  upen  his  bishop ;  for  on 
certain  days  of  the  year  every  church  in  Paris  con- 
verted itself  into  a  tavern,  and  sold  wine  under  its 
own  porch  to  every  comer.  Through  all  the  middle 
ages,  the  chalice  for  the  mass  was  full  to  the  brim, 
and  the  priest  took  his  draught,  a  plein  gosier,  on  the 
altar  steps.  On  grounds  belonging  to  a  monastery, 
the  dues  levied  from  an  inn  were  so  profitable  that 
the  abbe"  who  preached  against  drunkenness  from 
his  pulpit  was  always  the  easiest  landlord  for  the 
renewal  of  a  tenant's  lease.  His  peccant  priests  com- 
pounded at  an  easy  rate  for  their  sins  of  the  cup,  and 
legend  bears  ample  witness  to  their  skill  in  tripping 
by  the  heels  the  regular  sharpers  of  the  inn.  In  the 
fable  of  the  '  Cure*  et  les  deux  Ribands,'  the  monk, 


106  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

calling  for  supper  at  an  inn,  loses  at  cards  the  very 
nag  that  has  carried  him. 

1  Gentlemen,'  says  the  reverend  father,  quitting 
the  table,  '  you  have  won  a  very  good  horse  from 
me,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  he  is  a  little  awkward 
to  saddle.  Allow  me  to  saddle  him  for  you,' — and 
in  a  flash  he  was  up  and  away. 

To  such  a  height  was  gambling  carried  in  these 
places  that  in  1350  a  law  was  passed  forbidding  inn- 
keepers to  admit  dice-players  ;  but  in  the  fourteenth 
century  it  was  one  thing  to  make  a  law  and  quite 
another  thing  to  enforce  it.  Drinking  in  taverns, 
to  take  another  example,  was  illegal  after  curfew, 
yet  the  taverns  were  full  till  cock-crow. 

The  scholars  of  the  University,  rakes  and  roy- 
sterers  of  the  first  water,  were  tavern-haunters  as 
ardent  as  the  monks,  and  one  may  guess  that  any 
house  of  their  frequenting  was  a  lively  place  at 
nightfall,  for  who  named  a  scholar  named  a  bibber 
and  a  brawler.  But  the  students  had  at  least  a 
better  excuse  than  the  monks,  for  nearly  every 
college  in  Paris  starved  its  boarders,  and  unruly 
appetites  were  kept  in  order  by  that  most  terrible 
official,  the  whipping-man.  At  Montaigu  College, 
the  Dotheboys  Hall  of  old  Paris,  the  younger  boys 
dined  on  an  egg  or  half  a  herring,  with  water  and 
a  little  bread,  the  seniors  on  a  herring  or  two  eggs, 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  INN  107 

a  plate  of  vegetables,  and  a  morsel  of  butter,  with  a 
third  of  a  pint  of  wine  ;  and  on  this  fare  they  made 
shift  to  master  the  seven  learned  arts.*  Small  wonder 
that  they  climbed  out  of  bounds  at  night,  invaded 
the  inns  of  the  Pays  Latin,  ate  and  drank  on  credit, 
diced  away  their  shoestrings,  and  bawled  improper 
songs  in  that  true  Parisian  argot  which  Catherine  de 
Medicis  detested,  and  which  Montaigne  preferred  to 
the  jargon  of  the  pedants.  After  the  fame  of  Abe- 
lard,  all  Europe  sent  youths  to  the  colleges  of  Paris, 
and  all  the  colleges  contributed  to  fill  the  inns.  The 
English,  they  said,  were  '  lusty  and  great  tipplers ;' 
the  Germans  '  furious  and  of  lewd  conversation ;' 
the  Burgundians  '  gross  and  sottish ;'  the  Bretons 
■  light  and  fickle  ;'   the  Lombards  '  misers,  cheats, 

*  Grangousier,  thinking  that  his  son's  tutor,  Ponocrates,  has 
placed  the  young  Gargantua  at  Montaigu,  reproaches  him,  and  is 
thus  answered :  '  My  sovereign  lord,  think  not  that  I  have 
placed  him  in  that  lousy  college  which  they  call  Montaigu  ;  I 
had  rather  have  put  him  among  the  grave-diggers  of  Sanct- 
Innocent,  so  enormous  is  the  cruelty  and  villainy  that  I  have 
known  there :  for  the  galley-slaves  are  far  better  used  among 
the  Moors  and  Tartars,  the  murderers  in  the  criminal  dungeons, 
yea,  the  very  dogs  in  your  house,  than  are  the  poor  wretched 
students  in  the  aforesaid  college.  And  were  I  King  of  Paris,  the 
devil  take  me  if  I  would  not  set  it  on  fire,  and  burn  both 
principal  and  regents,  for  suffering  this  inhumanity  to  be  exercised 
before  their  eyes.' — '  Rabelais,'  Book  I.,  Ch.  37. 

Montaigne  ('  Essais,'  Book  I.,  Ch.  25)  is  scarcely  less  emphatic 
on  the  subject  of  Montaigu. 


108  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and  dastards;'  the  Romans  'quarrelsome,  violent, 
and  quick  to  strike  ;'  the  Sicilians  '  tyrannical  and 
cruel ;'  the  Flemish  '  prodigal,  effeminate,  and  flabby 
as  butter.' 

Scholar  and  monk  rubbed  shoulders  with  the 
light  women,  jilles  de  joie,  who  brought  much  solid 
custom  to  the  host ;  with  the  strolling  players  and 
minstrels,  the  lackeys  and  foot-runners,  the  vagrants, 
cut-purses  and  adventurers,  the  pedlars,  quacks  and 
mountebanks,  the  vendors  of  sham  relics,  the  par- 
doners, and  all  that  cahotage  of  charlatans  infesting 
mediaeval  France.  The  pardoners  and  the  dealers 
in  relics  were  always  among  the  busiest  of  the  crew. 
The  inn  was  the  mart  of  marts  for  their  wares,  their 
headquarters  in  whatever  place  they  alighted. 
Satire  and  jest  in  rhyme  and  fable  hurt  them  not  at 
all,  and  took  but  little  from  their  custom.  '  Do  but 
put  down  your  money,'  says  a  jester  of  the  period, 
*  and  these  merry  rogues  will  sell  you  a  cartload  of 
laths  from  the  Ark  of  pere  Noah,  the  snout  of  St. 
Anthony's  pig,  and  the  crest  of  the  cock  that  crowed 
chez  Pilate.' 

Every  night  some  little  drama  was  unfolded 
which  told  a  story  of  the  age.  The  tale  of  the 
Sacristan  of  Cluny,  which  lives  as  fiction  in  the 
pages  of  Jean  de  Chapelain,  is  history  in  the  jester's 
mask.     A  pair  of  thieves  stole  from   the   convent 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIAEVAL   INN  109 

of  Cluny  a  pig  which  was  fattening  for  Christmas. 
They  stowed  it  in  a  sack,  hid  it  in  one  of  the  dirt- 
heaps  which  studded  mediaeval  Paris  like  warts,  and 
returned  to  their  inn  to  drink  till  dark.  On  the 
same  afternoon,  a  certain  Hue  killed  with  a  club 
the  Sacristan  of  Cluny,  whom  he  had  surprised  with 
his  wife,  clapped  the  corpse  in  a  sack,  and  deposited 
it  in  the  mound  that  hid  the  pig.  The  pig-steal ers 
went  to  the  mound  to  out  a  rasher  for  supper, — 
and  drew  from  the  wrong  bag  the  Sacristan  of 
Cluny! 

Slowly  as  the  law  moved  then,  the  inn  became 
suspected  of  every  undiscovered  crime,  and  as  early 
as  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  in  the  reign 
of  St.  Louis,  it  was  enacted  that  none  but  travellers 
en  passage  should  be  housed  for  the  night. 

'  Item :  Nul  ne  soit  receu  a  faire  demeure  en  taverne 
se  il  n'est  tres  passant.' 

For  a  time,  this  enactment  kept  down  the  popu- 
lation of  the  inn,  and  rendered  it  to  that  extent  less 
dangerous  to  the  peace.  A  later  law  required  the 
inn-keeper  to  book  his  guests  by  name. 

But  even  to  restrict  the  uses  of  the  inn  to  the 
traveller  (excluding  by  this  provision  the  idler,  the 
gamester,  and  the  robber)  was  not  greatly  to  reduce 
its  custom ;  for  the  fashion  of  travel  was  already 
well  established,  and,  to  the  landlord,  every  comer 


110  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

was  a  '  traveller '  who  had  a  purse  for  the  night.  The 
traveller's  law  was  interpreted  as  the  laws  of  the 
dice-players  and  the  curfew. 

Had  it  been  followed  to  the  letter,  it  still  left  to 
the  innkeeper  the  custom  of  the  soldiery,  which,  for 
what  it  was  worth,  was  large  enough  in  an  age  of 
incessant  fighting.  But,  for  the  sins  of  the  inn- 
keeper, the  soldier,  who  was  so  often  billeted  upon 
him,  proved  in  general  the  scurviest  of  his  patrons. 
Archers,  arquebusiers,  and  cavalrymen  ate  him  out 
of  house,  and  paid  with  the  clink  of  their  money.  In 
certain  towns,  of  which  Bordeaux  was  one,  the  pri- 
vate citizens  were  exempted  from  the  charge  of  hous- 
ing the  military,  who  were  thus  cast  upon  the  inns, 
and  it  would  seem  that  in  almost  every  town  the 
innkeeper  was  forced  to  keep  open  table  for  them. 
Cavaliers  of  rank  found  their  quarters  in  the  chateaux 
or  in  the  houses  of  the  richer  bourgeois,  whence  it 
followed  that  the  innkeeper  lost  the  custom  of  those 
who  were  able  to  pay,  and  had  to  aocept  without 
choice  the  patronage  of  the  rank  and  file  who,  as 
often  as  not,  had  no  pay  at  all. 

An  army  without  wage  is  usually  an  army  of 
brigands ;  and  these  regiments,  whether  in  the  sa- 
cred cause  of  the  Crusades,  or  in  the  cause  of  France 
against  England,  or  in  the  cause  of  some  baron  who 
Jiad  a  feud  with  a  neighbour,  lived  as  best  they 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIAEVAL  INN  111 

could  upon  the  march.  They  ate  up  the  husband- 
man in  his  vineyard,  the  peasant  in  his  garden  patch, 
the  innkeeper  in  his  inn.  Plunder  was  forbidden 
them,  but  plunder  was  often  the  only  means  they 
had  of  living;  'Damoiselle  Picor^  (Miss  Plunder)  'sold 
me  this  '  was  a  phrase  of  exculpation  which  forgave 
the  private  soldier  all  his  lesser  thefts.  He  was  for- 
bidden to  sleep  two  successive  nights  in  the  same  inn, 
his  name  was  to  be  written  up  over  the  door,  and 
for  any  gross  compliment  that  he  offered  to  the  wife 
or  daughter  of  his  host  he  was  to  be  hanged  with- 
out trial  on  the  nearest  tree  ;  but  these  rigours  of  an 
imaginary  law  were  honoured  only  in  the  breach. 
The  soldier  full  of  booty  paid  his  score  five  times 
over,  the  same  soldier  out  of  luck  laid  his  sword 
upon  the  table,  when  the  bill  was  preparing,  with  a 
4  God  send  me  no  need  of  thee  !'  At  this  pass  the 
landlord  considered  whether  he  were  a  match  for  his 
guest. 

But,  even  in  time  of  war,  there  were  better  cus- 
tomers than  these.  Froissart,  a  lover  and  connois- 
seur of  inns,  makes  the  hostelry  his  quarters  of  a 
night  whenever  he  is  journeying;  and  in  the 
1  Froissart  Chronicles '  we  see  the  English  captains 
dismounting  by  preference  at  the  house  with  a 
swinging  sign. 

We  come  next  upon  the  curious  army  of  the  pil- 


112  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

grims.  What  did  these,  the  devotees  of  distant 
shrines,  as  guests  of  the  ribald  inn  ?  Their  presence 
there  is  the  final  and  most  convincing  proof  of  the 
transformation  of  the  whilom  zealot  into  the  whining 
charlatan.  For  the  true  pilgrim  did  not  need  the 
shelter  of  inn  ;  abbey  and  priory  or  simple  hermitage 
offered  a  refuge  which  he  had  the  right  to  claim ; 
and  in  solitary  places,  where  these  asylums  failed, 
there  was  often  some  wayside  cabin  set  apart  for 
his  needs,  while  few  peasants  would  shut  the  door 
against  a  pious  traveller  from  Rome.  What  palmer 
honouring  his  mission,  his  vows  of  honesty,  sobriety, 
and  chastity,  would  not  rather  choose,  all  other  sanct- 
uary lacking,  to  sleep  at  'the  sign  of  the  shining  stars  ' 
than  to  press  in  among  the  raffs  and  jades  of  the 
cabaret?  But  this  was  the  lodging,  and  this  the 
company,  of  the  pilgrim's  choice.  He  and  his  calling 
had  passed  into  proverb  and  unsavoury  by-word  : — 

*  Trout  arriere,  trout  avant, 
Ceux  qui  viennent  de  Rome  valent  pis  que  devant ; 

Or 

Jamais  cheval  ni  mechant  homme 
N'amenda  pour  aller  a  Rome.' 

If  we  may  credit  story,  jest,  and  chronicle  of  the 
middle  ages,  the  monk,  the  pardoner,  and  the  pil- 
grim were  three  of  the  best  carousers  in  France ;  and 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  INN  113 

Friar  John  of  the  Funnels,  who  is  only  second  to 
Panurge  in  the  masterpiece  of  Rabelais,  and  from 
whom,  for  three  hundred  years,  every  satirist  has 
copied  his  picture  of  the  witty,  bibulous,  and  valiant 
monk,  seems  to  have  been  (in  the  matter  of  the 
bottle,  at  any  rate)  not  so  much  a  travesty  as  a  type. 
Take  something  of  his  humour  from  him,  and  Friar 
John's  adeptship  at  the  bottle  was  quite  an  ordinary 
gift.  Not  every  pilgrim  had  his  wit,  and  few  had 
his  courage  in  the  lists,  but  his  prowess  as  a  drinker 
was  the  badge  of  all  his  order.  And  the  pilgrim 
who  had  forsworn  himself  had  a  Canterbury  tale  to 
excuse  his  thirst  in  every  inn  he  stopped  at,  for 
he  jogged  a  long  road  'twixt  sign  and  sign,  and  he 
had  his  song  to  sing  as  he  walked.  That  dirge  on 
the  daily  tramp : — 

Quand  nous  fumes  sur  le  pont  qui  tremble, 
Helas !     Mon  Dieu ! 
Quand  nous  fumes  dans  la  Saintonge, 
Helas !  Mon  Dieu !' 

sustained  for  hours  on  a  dusty  or  a  frosty  course, 
through  districts  barely  populated,  made  thirst  a  kind 
of  virtue  in  the  strolling  friar.  At  least,  his  journey 
was  his  plea.  He  could,  moreover,  at  a  pinch,  pay 
for  his  supper  and  his  bed  with  a  tale  ;  for  he  knew 
the  gossip  and  the  scandal  of  every  inn  on  the  road 

I 


114  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

from  Rome  to  Paris.  He  was  a  degenerate  and  a 
backslider,  whose  Church,  had  disowned  him,  but  to 
whom  a  corner  was  assured  in  every  hostel  in 
France. 

The  best  voice  of  the  mediaeval  church,  whether 
from  the  pulpit  or  by  story,  strove  incessantly  to 
turn  the  pilgrim  from  the  tavern  to  the  monastery. 
The  perils  of  the  '  accursed  refuge '  were  contrasted 
with  the  security  and  repose  of  those  offered  by  the 
church  to  all  travellers  in  the  cause  of  the  faith. 
Legend  vaunted  the  pious  hospitality  of  one  saint  and 
another :  Saint  Euthymenie  receiving  '  four  hun- 
dred foreigners '  in  the  hospitium,  and  witnessing  a 
renewal  of  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes;  Saint 
Anthony  passing  his  nights  in  prayer,  his  days  in 
cultivating  fruit  and  vegetables  for  his  visitors; 
Saint  Longin  welcoming  as  guests  the  men  who  were 
sent  to  slay  him ;  Saint  Apollonius  constituting  him- 
self the  guide  of  all  strayed  travellers;  or,  to  oppose 
to  these  examples,  it  is  the  story  of  Saint  Fus6,  who 
sees  '  suddenly  smitten  by  the  hand  of  God '  the 
churl  who  had  refused  him  charity.  But  the  great 
patron  saint  of  travellers  was  St.  Julien  the  hospi- 
taller, who  built  a  shelter  on  the  banks  of  a  wide 
and  rapid  stream,  in  attempting  to  cross  which  many 
wayfarers  had  perished. 

The  fame  of  St.  Julien  was  European,  and  every 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  INN  115 

traveller  who  would  be  snugly  housed  at  night  put 
up  a  prayer  to  him  on  setting  out  in  the  morning. 
Rinaldo  d'Asti,  in  the  '  Decameron,'  falling  in  with 
highwaymen  disguised  as  merchants,  is  asked  by  one 
of  them, 

'And  pray,  sir,  what  sort  of  prayer  do  you  use 
when  you  are  upon  a  journey  ?' 

1  In  good  truth,'  answered  Rinaldo,  '  I  know  little 
of  those  matters,  and  am  master  of  very  few  prayers ; 
but  I  live  in  an  old-fashioned  way,  and  can  tell  that 
twelve  pence  make  a  shilling ;  nevertheless,  I  always 
use,  when  I  am  upon  a  journey,  before  I  go  out  of 
my  inn,  to  say  one  Pater  Noster  aud  one  Ave  Maria 
for  the  souls  of  the  father  and  mother  of  St.  Julien ; 
and  after  that  I  pray  to  God  and  St.  Julien  to  send 
me  a  good  lodging  at  night.' 

At  a  lonely  part  of  the  road  Rinaldo  is  attacked 
by  the  robbers,  who  strip  him  to  his  shirt  and  leave 
him  with  a  '  Go,  see  if  thy  St.  Julien  will  provide  as 
good  a  lodging  for  thee  to-night  as  we  shall  have.' 

The  saint,  however,  has  not  wholly  forgotten  his 
disciple,  for  Rinaldo  in  this  plight  comes  to  the  house 
of '  a  widow  lady  of  great  beauty,'  who  entertains 
him  very  handsomely — and  the  robbers  are  presently 
taken  and  hanged. 

The  phrase,  'Avoir  I'hOtel  St.  Julien,'  traversed 
the  whole  middle  ages.     It  was  understood  first  in 

12 


116  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  sense  of  finding  those  rare  treasures,  a  good  inn 
and  an  honest  host ;  and  by  extension  it  came  to  mean 
any  kind  of  happy  fortune.  It  was  '  avoir  l'ostel 
saint  Julien '  to  be  successful  in  love  and  to  find  a 
good  wife. 

Qui  prend  bonne  femme,  je  tien 
Que  son  ostel  est  saint  Julien. 

For  the  robber  and  cut-throat,  '  avoir  l'ostel  saint 
Julien'  was  to  meet  with  a  rich  and  easy  prey ;  for 
the  woman  of  the  town  it  was  to  find  an  amiable 
gallant  with  a  well-filled  purse. 

The  hospitable  virtues  which  had  been  insensibly 
declining  revived  amid  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Cru- 
sades, gaining  a  new  vitality  from  the  example  of 
the  charitable  East.  But  after  the  Crusades,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  these  generous 
traditions  passed  and  were  lost  again  ;  and  the  inn 
reaped  the  advantage.  The  monks  not  only  sent  the 
traveller  there,  but  returned  there  themselves.  Monk, 
priest,  canon,  abbe,  nay,  upon  occasion,  the  bishop 
himself  made  no  scruple  of  using  the  place  which 
the  Church,  in  all  its  official  utterances,  continued 
to  denounce.  The  bishop  who  had  a  quarrel  with  a 
monastery  which  lay  upon  his  road  would  pass  it  by 
and  alight  at  the  nearest  hostel.  To  sleep  a  night 
at  the  inn,  within  sight  of  the  monastery  gates,  was 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  INN  117 

his  grace's  way  of  showing  his  very  small  regard  for 
the  brethren.  In  the  time  of  Saint  Bernard,  the 
newly-elected  bishop  of  Langres  behaved  in  this 
manner. 

'  He  gets  down  at  an  inn,'  writes  St.  Bernard, 
much  scandalised,  to  Pope  Innocent  II.  '  He  arrived 
on  Thursday  evening,  and  went  away  on  Saturday 
morning.  One  might  have  thought  at  first  that  he 
acted  in  this  manner  out  of  clerical  humility  and  to 
show  himself  little  mindful  of  the  honours  that 
awaited  him  in  the  monastery  ;  but  such  was  not  the 
case  ;  for  the  archbishop,  on  returning  from  an  inter- 
view with  him,  publicly  protested  that  the  bishop 
would  consent  to  nothing,  and  flouted  the  very  notion 
of  reconciliation.' 

Sometimes,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  the  monks 
of  a  monastery,  too  celebrated  for  its  laxity  of  morals, 
who  refused  admission  to  the  prelate  on  his  tour  of 
inspection.  Odon  Rigault,  archbishop  of  Rouen,  dis- 
tinguished throughout  his  diocese  for  the  vigour  and 
austerity  of  his  rule,  having  occasion  to  inspect  the 
abbey  of  Lessage,  could  gain  no  entrance.  The 
monks  were  keeping  holiday,  and  would  not  let  him 
in.  Driven  to  an  o*tel,  he  passed  the  night  there,  and 
presented  himself  a  second  time  at  the  abbey  on 
the  following  morning,  with  no  better  fortune.  His 
two  demands,  that  the  doors  should  be  opened  to 


118  AN  IDLE     IN  OLD  FRANCE 

him,  and  that  his  bill  at  the  inn  should  be  paid,  got 
not  the  barest  answer.  He  wrote  then  to  the  bishop 
of  Contances,  who  had  the  spiritual  charge  of  Les- 
sage,  and  had  the  poor  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
the  abbot  who  had  offended  him  was  '  very  severely 
reprimanded.' 

It  is  true  that  the  bishop  who  made  the  inn  his 
convenience  on  Saturday  would  denounce  it  from 
his  pulpit  on  Sunday ;  but  there  was  one  season  of 
the  year  when  he  scrupulously  forgot  his  charge, — 
the  season  when  the  dues  of  the  inn-keeper  were  to 
be  collected.  It  is  a  little  disquieting  to  learn  that 
prior,  abbe,  and  bishop  had  in  reality  much  to  gain 
by  assisting  privately  the  industry  which  they 
made  never  an  end  of  reviling  ex  cathedra.  The 
poorest  little  shanty  on  the  territory  of  the  church 
paid  for  the  privilege  of  opening  its  door  and 
v  exhibiting  its  sign,  and  these  taxes  were  gathered 
with  a  careful  hand. 

On  king's  land  there  were  king's  dues  to  be  paid. 
Anyone  might  hold  a  tavern  on  ground  belonging 
to  the  king,  who  could  show  that  he  was  in  a  posi- 
tion to  pay  the  king's  cJiantelage.  St.  Louis  gave  or 
renewed  this  permission,  and  that  sovereign  of  pious 
fame  kept  an  easy  conscience  in  the  matter  by 
stigmatising  as  infamous  every  frequenter  of  a  inn 
who  was  not  a  bona  fide  traveller.     From  about  the 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIAEVAL  INN  119 

fourteenth  century  the  inns  of  Paris  were  chiefly 
controlled  by  the  police,  whose  regulations  were 
many  and  ineffectual.  Early  in  the  fifteenth  century 
the  number  of  inns  and  hostelries  in  Paris  was 
reduced  to  sixty,  but  the  privileges  of  the  inn- 
keeper were  extended ;  he  was  exempted  from  the 
tax  on  forage,  and  was  allowed  to  carry  arms.  Our 
Henry  VI.,  during  his  occupation  of  Paris,  reduced 
this  very  moderate  number  to  thirty-four ;  but  Paris 
was  now  so  large  a  town  that  it  cannot  have  re- 
mained long  at  that.  Of  the  rules  of  the  police, 
some  were  both  foolish  and  tiresome ;  thus,  the 
benches  for  the  use  of  customers  must  be  of  a  certain 
size  and  form,  and  the  taverner  who  sold  wine 
perfumed  with  sage  or  rosemary  must  hang  out  no 
sign  except  a  wooden  hoop. 

The  signs  and  signboards  of  the  inns  were  a  dis- 
tinctive and  peculiar  feature  of  the  streets  of  old 
Paris.  His  sign  was  a  matter  of  importance  to  the 
host,  for  it  marked  him  out  from  the  keepers  of 
stalls  and  booths  in  the  streets,  the  itinerant  sellers 
of  cakes,  sweetmeats,  cheap  wines,  and  all  other 
competitors.  The  sign  that  hung  resplendent  from 
the  gable  of  the  inns  rallied  its  customers,  and 
might  become  a  watch-word  throughout  the  quarter. 
If  it  took  the  likeness  of  the  arms  of  a  county  or 
province,  visitors   to   Paris    from  that    county    or 


120  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

province  would  almost  certainly  make  the  inn  their 
meeting-ground  and  place  of  lodging.  A  hostel  of 
particular  repute  often  gave  its  name  to  the  street 
it  stood  in.  There  was  one  known  by  the  sign  of 
the  'Levrette,'  where  a  German  traveller  new  to  Paris 
had  taken  up  his  quarters.  Returning  thither  one 
day,  he  suddenly  forgot  the  name ;  that  is  to  say, 
whilst  well  aware  that  he  lodged  at  the  sign  of  the 
'  Greyhound,'  he  could  not  recall  the  word  in  French. 
Passing  a  pastry-cook's  shop,  he  saw  a  hare  laid 
out,  and  knowing  that  hares  are  hunted  by  grey- 
hounds, he  enquired  of  the  pastrycook, 

'My  friend,  what  do  you  call  the  thing  which 
takes  that  thing  there  ?' 

'  A  dog,'  said  the  pastrycook,  when  he  had  under- 
stood the  question. 

'  Yes,  but  a  rather  tall  dog,  with  long  fine  legs, 
and  a  so  slender  stomach  ?' 

'  Ah,  good,  you  mean  a  levrier,'  said  the  pastry- 
cook. 

'  That  is  it ;  and  how  do  you  call  the  wife  of  the 
levrier.' 

1  That  lady,'  returned  the  pastrycook,  '  is  called 
levrette.' 

'  To  be  sure  !'  cried  the  German.  '  And  now  be 
so  kind  as  to  tell  me  where  is  the  Street  Levrette,  in 
which  the  inn  of  that  name  is  placed?' 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  ItfN  121 

At  one  period  the  swinging  sign  was  not  the  only 
means  by  which  the  inn  was  advertised.  We  have 
seen  the  host  on  his  threshold,  proclaiming  his  wines 
and  meats ;  but  in  the  thirteenth  century  and  later 
there  was  a  class  of  criers,  who  made  their  living  by 
going  up  and  down  the  streets  and  crossways  of 
Paris,  crying  the  wines  of  this  and  that  tavern,  and 
their  prices.  The  crier  carried  a  large  wooden  mug, 
filled  with  the  best  wine  of  the  tavern  that  employed 
him,  and  finished  his  exordium  at  the  street  corner 
by  entreating  everyone  to  taste  it : 

•  This  is  the  rare  wine  they  sell  so  cheaply  at  the 
"  Golden  Pestle ;"  come  and  taste,  come  and  prove 
it!' 

But  this  advertisement  was  not  always  so  much 
to  the  gain  of  the  innkeeper  as  might  be  supposed, 
since  he  was  compelled  by  statute  to  observe  the  price 
proclaimed  by  the  crier,  who  received  it,  not  from 
the  landlord  but  from  his  customers.  The  crier  must 
visit  every  morning  the  inn  that  had  hired  him,  and 
demand  of  any  who  might  be  drinking  there,  at  what 
price  their  cups  had  been  served  to  them.  The  re- 
striction thus  placed  on  him  was  little  to  the  taste  or 
profit  of  a  landlord  who  saw  no  reason  why  the  cus- 
tomer in  velvet  or  brocade  should  drink  as  cheaply 
as  the  customer  in  cloth.  But  the  crier  had  his 
legal  status,  his  droit  au  travail,  as  the  taverner  had  ; 


122  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and,  his  footing  once  established,  lie  was  not  easily 
displaced.  He  took  his  stand  upon  an  edict  of 
Philippe-Auguste,  which,  in  the  thirteenth  century 
French,  runs  as  follows : 

'  Quiconque  est  crieur  a  Paris,  il  puet  aler  en  la 
quele  taverne  que  il  voudra,  et  crier  le  vin,  por  tant 
qu'il  y  ait  vin  a  brosche,*  se  en  la  taverne  n'a  crieur, 
ne  li  tavernier  ne  li  puer  veer '  (defendre).  In  sum : 
'  Every  crier  in  Paris  may  enter  any  tavern  he 
pleases,  and  cry  the  prices  of  the  wine  sold  there  at 
retail.  His  right  of  entry  cannot  be  refused,  even  if 
the  landlord  has  no  regular  crier  in  his  pay.' 

But  the  black  sheep  of  the  trade  (the  majority 
always  in  mediseval  France)  found  this  rule  so  little 
to  their  profit,  that,  for  the  best  part  of  a  century, 
from  1274  to  1351,  they  were  continually  at  odds 
with  the  criers  whom  the  law  obliged  them  to 
employ.  The  criers,  like  the  innkeepers,  were  a 
corporation,  and,  in  the  public  interest,  the  voice  of 
the  law  was  generally  on  their  side.  The  innkeeper 
who  tried  to  shut  his  door  upon  them  had  his  wines 
cried  willy-nilly,  and  the  crier  enforced  his  wage. 

One  other  statute  on  this  subject  throws  a  new 
light  upon  the  customs  and  morals  of  the  age.  We 
are  to  remember,  in  parenthesis,  that  the  king  en- 
sures the  tavern  and  the  church  upbraids  it.     The 

*  By  the  jug ;  retail. 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIEVAL  INN  123 

article  takes  this  shape  in  the  barbaric  French  of 
the  epoch : 

'  Se  li  roi  met  vin  a  taverne,  tout  li  autre  ta vernier 
cessent,  et  li  crieur  tout  ensemble,  doivent  crier  le 
vin  le  roi  au  matin  et  au  soir  par  les  carrefours  de 
Paris.' 

The  sense  is  plain  enough.  The  king,  who  de- 
nounces the  traffic,  is  a  sharer  in  it,  and  monopolises 
J  the  market  until  his  own  vintage  is  disposed  of : 

'  When  the  king  sends  his  wine  to  market,  the 
innkeepers  must  at  once  cease  from  selling,  and  all 
the  criers  must  cry  the  king's  wine  morning  and 
evening  at  the  cross  ways  of  Paris.' 

Having  entered  the  business,  the  king  pushed  his 
advantage  to  the  end.  His  right  in  the  wine  market 
was  called  the  ban  le  roy,  and  the  king's  ban  was 
notified  in  the  neighbourhood  of  every  tavern  in 
the  town.  There  is  mention  of  it  in  the  old  '  Crieries 
de  Paris ': — 

'  Aucunc  fois,  ce  m'est  avis 
Crie-t-on  le  ban  le  roy  Loys.' 

The  king's  wine  was  sold  wholesale  and  retail,  in 
a  quarter  of  Paris  affected  to  the  commerce.  What 
came  to  be  known  as  King's-Wine-Street  (Rue  Vin- 
le-Roy)  was  a  narrow  thoroughfare  abutting  on  the 
Rue  des  Lombards,  which  was  the  wine  merchant's 
mart  and  centre.     In  a  word,  the  king,  by  force  of 


121  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

feudal  privilege,  carried  his  barrels  within  the 
market  doors,  and  kept  the  trade  outside  till  he  had 
sold  them. 

But  the  innkeeper  had  still  two  other  formidable 
rivals  in  his  calling.  After  the  king  came  the  seign- 
eur, and  after  the  seigneur  the  abbe ;  and,  although 
the  seigneur's  monopoly  was  at  second  hand,  and 
the  abbe's  at  third  hand,  the  one  and  the  other 
represented  a  goodly  sum.  In  an  old  history  of 
Melun,  it  is  gravely  written  how  a  lord  of  that  town 
was  punished  by  divine  intervention  for  seeking  to 
abuse  his  prerogative.  One  of  his  vassals  brought 
,wine  to  the  market  before  the  vicomte  had  cleared 
out  his  own  and  was  promptly  chastised,  while  the 
vicomte's  men  attempted  to  stave  in  the  offender's 
casks.  He  cried  to  heaven  thereupon,  and  a  miracle 
twaa  wrought;  for  while  the  casks  of  the  vassal 
resisted  every  blow,  those  of  the  vicomte  inconti- 
nently burst  and  let  out  their  full  contents.  In 
some  provincial  parts  the  nobles,  not  content  with 
selling  their  vintage  once  a  year  par  hasard,  opened 
tavern  boldly  on  their  own  account.  Lastly,  there 
was  the  ban  of  the  monastery,  which  might,  if  it 
pleased,  put  its  vintage  up  to  auction  in  cloisters, 
without  the  trouble  of  transporting  it  to  market. 
And  all  this  time,  perforce,  the  innkeeper  found  his 
own  business  at  a  standstill. 


THE  FRENCH  MED1JEVAL  INN  125 

It  might  happen  that  he  had  not  bite  nor  sup  to 
sell  to  a  famished  traveller.  In  remote  places  where, 
except  for  the  casual  visits  of  marauders  and 
marauding  soldiers,  life  stagnated  perpetually,  and 
every  kind  of  commerce  was  unknown,  the  wretch- 
ed keeper  of  the  wayside  inn  was  sometimes  at  his 
last  shift  for  a  meal.  His  larder  might  have  been 
stripped  by  highwaymen,  or  soldiery,  or  the  lackeys 
of  some  neighbouring  lord  returning  with  their  dogs 
from  the  chase  ;  and  under  the  royal,  or  seigneurial, 
or  monacal  ban,  he  might  have  failed  to  procure  a 
supply  of  the  commonest  wine.  Cold  comfort  there 
for  the  belated  traveller  arriving  after  sundown  ! 

In  the  tale  of  the  '  Boucher  d' Abbeville,'  the 
rich  butcher  returning  from  the  market  of  Oise- 
mont  is  surprised  by  the  night  and  forced  to  seek  a 
lodging  in  a  miserable  village.  Meeting  a  peasant 
woman  at  the  entrance,  he  enquires  for  an  inn. 

'  We  keep  an  inn  ourselves,  my  husband  and  1/ 
answers  the  woman,  '  but  you  will  find  very  poor 
cheer  there.  I  advise  you,  sir,  to  go  to  our  cure, 
Sire  Gautier ;  he  has  just  received  two  tuns  of  wine 
from  Noyentel,  and  is  the  only  person  in  the  village 
who  has  any.' 

In  many  another  village,  says  the  author  of  the 
story,  Eustache  d' Amiens,  '  our  butcher  would  have 
had  a  similar  reply — lean  larder  and  empty  cellar 


126  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

at  the  inn;  at  the  parsonage  or  monastery  well- 
stocked  larder  and  cellar  stored.' 

It  is  easily  understood  that  where  king,  noble,  or 
cleric  in  the  middle  ages  turns  tradesman  for  the 
nonce,  the  tradesman  as  such  goes  promptly  to  the 
wall.  The  nobleman  made  no  scruple  to  hire  the 
great  hall  of  his  chateau  for  a  peasant's  wedding 
feast,  whereby  again  the  luckless  innkeeper  lost 
custom.  His  narrow,  mean,  and  not  too  cleanly 
chamber  was  little  likely  to  entice  the  bridal  party 
who  could  get  leave  to  dance  beneath  the  rafters  of 
their  feudal  lord  ;  and  if  the  guests  had  mustered 
but  a  score,  half  of  them  would  have  needed  to  bring 
their  own  cups  and  platters.  For  the  furniture  and 
fittings  of  the  rustic  inn  were  scant  and  beggarly ;  a 
few  pewter  pots  and  goblets,  some  plates  and  dishes 
of  earthenware,  or,  instead  of  plates,  mats  of  coarsely 
woven  rushes ;  and  '  all  pell-mell  on  a  greasy  three- 
legged  table.'  Cloth  there  was  none,  and  napkins 
'  of  the  texture  of  sail-cloth '  were  '  a  great  luxury.' 
The  table  would  not  have  seated  two-thirds  of  the 
party,  and  the  guest  who  quitted  his  place  for  a  mo- 
ment would  never  have  recovered  it. 

The  tariff  of  the  mediaeval  inn  is  not  to  be  ascer- 
tained with  any  certainty  at  this  day,  but  it  may  be 
supposed  that  the  landlord  took  from  his  guests 
whatever  they  were   able    or  willing  to  pay  him. 


THE  FRENCH  MEDIJEVAL  INN  127 

The  rich  or  careless  traveller  he  fleeced  with  an 
easier  conscience  for  the  certain  conviction  that  by- 
and-bye  would  come  along  some  knight  of  the  road 
who  would  offer  in  payment  for  bed  and  board  a  pass 
or  two  with  his  rapier.  There  has  been  preserved 
to  us,  however,  one  interesting  item  on  this  subject ; 
the  note  of  expenses  incurred  at  his  inn  by  the  father 
of  Joan  of  Arc,  when  he  came  in  the  king's  train  to 
Reims,  in  September,  1429,  to  assist  at  the  coronation. 
He  lodged  at  the  '  Striped  Ass,'  and  leaves  an  order 
for  payment  to  be  made  of  twenty-four  livres  parisis* 
'  to  Alis,  widow  of  the  late  Raulin-Moriau,  hostess 
of  the  "Ane  Raye,"  for  monies  disbursed  in  her  hotel.' 
Twenty-four  livres  would,  of  course,  have  stood  for  a 
much  larger  sum  at  this  day,  but  the  bill  seems  a 
modest  one,  for  Joan's  father  was  probably  a  full 
week  at  the  *  Striped  Ass.' 

Such,    under  its    chief  aspects,  was  the  French 
mediaeval  inn. 


*  The  livre  and  the  franc  were  practically  equivalent. 


128 


A  MEDLEVAL  PULPIT. 

Between  the  years  1494  and  1508  the  church  of 
Saint- Jean-en-Greve  was  as  much  frequented  as  any 
in  Paris.  People  will  generally  flock  to  hear  them- 
selves roundly  reckoned  with,  and  all  Paris  knew 
Brother  Maillard's  skill  in  improving  the  occasion, 
whatever  the  occasion  might  be.  The  reverend 
father  was  as  good  as  a  Times  newspaper  or  a  Satur- 
day Review, — I  think  he  was  better  than  either. 

From  the  pulpit  of  Saint-Jean-en-Greve,  as  from  a 
pinnacle,  he  beheld  the  little  world  of  mediseval 
Paris,  and  saw  that  it  was  not  nigh  unto  salvation. 
Nothing  that  was  ill  done  escaped  him ;  it  was  a 
terrible  pulpit  of  Frere  Maillard's.  He  looked  out 
from  it  and  saw  the  money-changer  clipping  his 
pieces,  the  wine-seller  adulterating  his  wines,  the 
apothecary  laying  his  drugs  in  the  cellar  where  the 
damp  would  make  them  heavier,  the  draper  giv- 


A  MEDIEVAL  PULPIT  129 

ing  false  measure,  the  grocer  depressing  the  scale 
with  his  finger.  Again  he  looked  out  from  it,  and 
beheld  abbot  and  monk  living  riotously,  and  selling 
more  masses  for  souls  than  they  could  say  up  to  the 
day  of  doom,  and  trafficking  in  pardons  and  absolu- 
tions; counsellors  of  parliament  bribing  the  law 
when  they  had  a  case  to  settle,  and  lawyers  fleecing 
their  clients ;  noble  and  bourgeois  alike  bartering 
the  virtue  of  their  daughters  ;  high  dames  and  low 
rougeing  their  cheeks,  and  wearing  gowns  that  hon- 
esty could  never  purchase,  and  signalling  their  lovers 
in  the  churches ;  monks  keeping  taverns ;  and  fair 
penitents  not  over-penitent  within  the  nunnery 
walls. 

In  the  torrent  of  his  words — for  Brother  Maillard 
was  such  a  son  of  thunder  as  Paris  had  not  often 
listened  to,  and  he  brooked  no  interruption — it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  hardy  preacher  was  occasionally  car- 
ried beyond  himself,  that  the  brief  was  a  little  over- 
charged. But  we  are  to  remember  that  these 
sermons  were  preached  coram  populo,  and  in  the  heart 
of  Paris,  and  that  Maillard  held  his  charge  and 
uttered  his  valiant  parable  during  a  period  of  fourteen 
years.  Sift  him  as  we  may,  we  are  indebted  to  him 
for  a  very  curious  picture  of  his  times. 

The  period  embraces  the  last  four  years  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  VIII.  and  the  first  ten  (or  more  than 

K 


130  AN  IDLER  JN  OLD  FRANCE 

half)  of  that  of  Louis  XII.  This  is  the  very  end  of 
the  middle  ages ;  for  with  Francis  I.,  who  took  the 
throne  in  succession  to  Louis  XII.,  we  are  at  the  era 
of  the  Renaissance. 

Through  all  this  period  men  spoke  as  they  listed, 
and  the  literary  style  was  not  much  more  delicate 
than  the  vernacular.  Rabelais,  whose  '  Pantagruel ' 
startled  the  early  Renaissance,  and  after  him  Bran- 
tome,  wrote  in  the  manner  in  which  all  the  world 
conversed.  The  pulpit  itself  could  be  as  inelegant 
as  the  court,  or  the  street,  or  the  duchess's  boudoir, 
and  it  would  be  quite  useless  to  attempt  an  exact 
reproduction  of  the  style  in  which  Brother  Maillard 
delivered  his  soul  to  fashionable  Paris.  He  is  pos- 
sible only  in  '  select  examples.' 

'  Answer  me,  you  merchants :  is  there  any  differ- 
ence in  character  between  the  devil  and  you  ?  A 
rogue  and  swindler  is  the  devil,  you  know.  You 
wine-sellers  there,  are  you  still  palming  off  as  the 
good  liquor  of  Orleans  or  Anjou  that  precious  mix- 
ture of  your  own  ?  I  see  a  cloth-merchant  or  two 
down  there  :  are  you  at  your  old  tricks  too  ?  I  know 
you !  Selling  your  rubbish  from  Beauvais  as  Rouen 
wools,  eh  ?  And  you,  madame  la  marchande,  I  hear 
you're  juggling  with  the  scales  just  as  cunningly  as 
ever,  madame.  Master  money-changer  over  there, 
how  many  crowns   did  you   clip   last  week  ?     My 


A  MEDIEVAL  PULPIT  181 

sweet  friends,  you  will  give  me  no  choice  but  to 
send  you  packing  to  the  devil.' 

To  parents  thinking  of  the  law  as  a  fair  opening 
for  their  sons,  he  says : 

'  Take  ray  advice  and  make  cowherds  and  swine- 
herds of  them  P 

The  lawyers  are  '  still  plucking  the  geese,  1  sup- 
pose ?  You  paid  a  good  price  for  the  office,  you 
must  get  the  money  back  somehow,  eh?  Well, 
here's  a  gentleman  from  Parliament  going  to  help 
you.  I  don't  know  what  mess  he's  been  getting 
into,  but  he'll  be  asking  some  of  you  to  dinner  by- 
and-bye  ;  and,  mark  me,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  there 
were  new  gowns  for  your  daughters  at  the  back 
of  it.' 

The  Parisians  as  a  body,  he  says,  are  given  over 
to  games  of  hazard,  cards,  dice,  fine  clothes,  loose 
living,  and  incredible  swearing. 

He  declaims  against  the  printers  and  publishers 
who  produce  and  sell  unlawful  translations  of  the 
Bible  in  the  mother  tongue. 

'  Has  not  Pope  Innocent  forbidden  all  books  save 
those  approved  by  the  bishop  or  his  vicar?  Oh, 
most  miserable  booksellers !  What !  Is  it  not 
enough  that  you  damn  your  own  souls  ?  Must  you 
into  the  bargain  damn  the  souls  of  others  by  print- 
ing and  selling  to   them  vile  works  in   praise   of 

K  2 


132  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

luxury  and  love  !  Avaunt !  I  banish  you.  To  all 
the  devils  with  you  !' 

The  University  of  Paris  gets  a  taste  of  his  invec- 
tive. He  finds  both  scholars  and  professors  wasting 
their  time  in  debauchery,  and  demands  of  the 
former  whether  their  parents  sent  them  to  Paris  to 
scatter  their  money  among  the  women  of  the  town, 
and  of  the  latter  whether  they  are  paid  to  set  the 
students  a  dissolute  example.  He  denounces  the 
extravagant  privileges  which  the  University  enjoys. 

Endless  are  his  diatribes  against  women.  They 
paint  their  faces  and  wear  wigs,  their  gowns  are 
extravagantly  rich,  their  trains  sweep  the  streets, 
they  carry  beads  of  gold  at  their  belts,  but  not  for 
devotion ;  they  are  perpetually  gadding  to  balls 
and  dinner-parties,  and  they  make  the  church  a 
place  of  assignation. 

'  A  fine  thing,  o'  my  conscience,  to  see  the  wife  of 
one  of  these  advocates,  who  has  just  bought  his 
office  and  hasn't  sixpennorth  of  practice,  tricked  out 
like  a  princess,  with  gold  on  her  head,  and  gold 
round  her  neck,  and  gold  round  her  waist.  She 
dresses,  she  says,  according  to  her  estate.  Let  her 
go  to  the  devil,  she  and  her  estate  !  And  you,  Mas- 
ter John  the  curate,  you'll  give  her  absolution,  will 
you  ?  A  word  in  your  ear,  John, — I'll  give  the  pair 
of  you  to  thirty  thousand  devils  !' 


A  MEDIAEVAL   PULPIT  133 

Again :  '  And  I  see  that  you  have  not  forgotten 
the  red  paint  for  your  cheeks,  ladies.  By  my  faith, 
you  have  laid  it  on  well.  Fye  !  Are  these  the  ways 
of  modesty  and  decency  ?  But  you  will  go  home  and 
say :  "  Bah !  One  must  not  believe  all  that  one  hears 
in  the  pulpit." — And  tell  me,  mesdemoiselles,  is  it  for 
the  love  of  Notre-Seigneur  Jesus-Christ  that  you 
carry  a  paternoster  or  a  set  of  beads  in  gold  ?  I  trow 
not,  I  trow  not.  Nay,  but  our  gallants  have  them 
too,  I  perceive.  Is  this  your  piety,  messieurs,  or 
your  vanity  ?  Hark  you :  mend  your  ways,  break 
with  your  vanities,  your  luxuries,  and  your  light 
women,  or  I'll  give  you  to  all  the  devils  in  the  Pit ! 
There  are  in  that  same  Pit,  yea  at  this  very  hour, 
forty  thousand  priests,  as  many  merchants,  and  as 
many  oppressors  of  the  poor,  who  have  not  merited 
that  lodging  so  richly  as  you.' 

The  clergy  of  all  degrees  come  off  scarcely  one  jot 
better  than  the  laity.  The  terrible  preacher  upbraids 
their  simonies,  the  extravagance  of  prelates  and  the 
ignorance  of  the  lower  clergy  ;  trickery  and  impos- 
tures on  the  one  hand,  and  licentious  living  on  the 
other. 

'  Benefices  are  sold  in  open  day,'  says  Maillard. 
*  It  is  well  known,  I  suppose,  that  to  possess  two 
benefices  is  a  kind  of  damnation,  yet  are  there  some 
who  scruple  not  to  hold  two,  three,  and  even  four ; 


184  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

yea,  and  a  most  strange  thing  it  is  to  note  what  bene- 
fices without  number  our  pious  prelates  have  the  art 
of  attracting  to  themselves  !  .  .  .  .  They  tell  me, 
most  righteous  clerics,  that  you'll  not  suffer  a  shave- 
ling curate  in  your  parishes  except  he  consent  to 
share  with  you  the  profits  of  the  sacrament.  Pious 
gains,  hein?  "Master  John,"  say  you,  "  you'll  perform 
this  or  that  service  to-day,  and  there'll  be  fivepence 
to  you  for  it."  Godly  gains,  hein  t  Or  you'll  say, 
mayhap  :  "  Ho,  ho  !  Master  John  would  like  to  take 
the  confessions  here,  would  he  ?  By  G —  !  but  I'll 
have  two  words  with  him  upon  that,  unless  he  turns 
over  here  a  third  of  what  he  makes  by  them,"  ('  a 
moins  qu'il  ne  me  donne  le  tiers  de  son  profit).' 

One  begins  to  think  that  Rabelais  had  a  valid  text 
for  his  '  Pantagruel,'  in  which  the  foibles  of  the  holy 
men  are  not  too  much  condoned, 

1  When  pious  frauds  and  holy  shifts 
Are  dispensations  and  gifts,' 

says  Butler  in  '  Hudibras ;'  and  to  these  commercial 
junctures  of  the  faith  Maillard  has  a  most  pitiless 
eye.  The  worker  of  miracles  at  so  much  the 
miracle,  the  pardoner,  the  hawker  of  relics,  and  all 
the  crew  of  mock  religionists  from  Rome,  are  as 
detestable  to  Maillard  as  to  Rabelais,  and  he  has 
never  done  with  them. 


A   MEDIAEVAL  PULPIT  135 

He  knows  the  bishop  who  goes  a-hawking  in  flat 
contravention  of  the  law,  and  the  abbot  who 
kennels  at  the  church's  cost  a  pack  of  most  uncan- 
onical  hunting-dogs.  Anon  he  spies  that  Master 
John  the  curate,  who  is  his  friend  by  turns  and  his 
scapegoat,  slipping  in  the  dark  into  a  tavern  of  very- 
poor  repute,  and  threatens  him  with  '  the  leprosy  of 
the  devil '  should  he  venture  that  way  again. 

He  taxes  priest  and  curate  with  a  use  of  the 
church  not  sanctioned  by  the  faith.  '  What  say 
you  !  If  these  pillars  had  eyes  and  could  see,  if  they 
had  ears  and  could  hear,  what  would  they  tell  us  ? 
No,  you  need  not  ask  me,  for  I  know  nothing, — but 
there  are  other  priests  in  Paris.'  In  an  advent 
sermon,  he  asks  whether  '  le  Christ '  came  down  in 
search  of  a  cardinal's  hat,  what  number  of  livings  he 
held,  and  what  sum  he  spent  upon  his  kennels. 

There  are  passages  and  whole  pages  In  Maillard 
more  difficult  of  reproduction  than  any  I  have  cited, 
for  he  seldom  quits  the  license  of  his  speech,  and 
the  uglier  the  theme  the  more  downright  is  the 
style  in  which  he  handles  it.  Yet  it  would  be  easy 
to  collect  from  these  sermons,  violent  and  over- 
wrought as  they  so  often  are,  an  impression  too 
gross  and  exaggerated  of  the  age  which  they  reflect. 
Morals  were  not  exhausted,  they  were  not  even  at 
the  lowest  ebb ;  but  their  aspect  seems  the  darker 


136  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

by  reason  of  the  greater  light  which  history  has  cast 
upon  them.  Meanwhile,  before  the  middle  ages 
had  quite  vanished,  the  printing-press  had  been  set 
up,  new  influences  were  at  work,  a  new  spirit  was 
stealing  over  Europe,  the  immemorial  prestige  of 
Rome  was  waning,  and  the  rays  of  the  Renaissance 
were  breaking  slowly  on  the  world. 


137 


APPRENTICE,  WORKMAN  AND  MASTER 

The  little  boy  running  wild  in  Paris — let  us  say  in 
the  thirteenth  century — might  be  snapped  up  by 
the  church,  or  his  father  might  decide  to  put  him 
into  trade.  In  the  cloister  or  the  workshop,  he  was 
at  least  certain  of  a  living.  Openings  to  a  reputable 
calling  were  very  few  in  the  middle  ages,  but  the 
apprentice  had  always  a  future.  In  a  day  when  the 
strict  laws  of  trade  made  open  competition  impossible 
(no  open  market  existing),  and  when  competition  of 
any  kind  was  considered  not  quite  fair  between  two 
followers  of  one  industry,  great  fortunes  in  business 
were  scarcely  to  be  looked  for ;  but  the  careful 
tradesman  had  a  chance  of  growing  reasonably  rich, 
and  the  workman,  who,  having  ended  his  apprentice- 
ship, shirked  the  responsibilities  of  mastership,  might 
always  reckon  on  employment. 

Apprenticeship  was  an   important  institution  in 


138  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

mediaeval  France,  and  one  which,  in  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries,  was  regulated  with  the 
utmost  care.  The  age  at  which  a  boy  might  begin 
to  learn  a  trade  was  not  fixed  with  any  degree  of 
precision,  but  it  was  seldom  below  ten  years  and 
not  often  above  sixteen.  The  clockmakers  received 
them  up  to  twenty,  but  this  was  very  exceptional ; 
the  limit  of  age  among  the  bakers  was  fifteen.  If 
the  lad  sought  admission  among  the  printers  and 
booksellers  he  would  be  required  to  have  some 
knowledge  of  reading  and  writing,  accomplishments 
rare  in  any  other  corporation.  The  two  indispens- 
able oonditions  were,  that  the  applicant  should  be 
unmarried,  and  a  native  of  France.  Since  the  term 
of  his  apprenticeship  was  usually  long,  the  appren- 
tice might  marry  before  its  expiration,  in  which  case 
he  had  the  privilege  of  living  at  home,  at  the  charge 
of  his  master.  Very  often  he  married  into  the 
master's  family,  and  succeeded  to  the  house.  As 
regards  lads  not  of  French  birth,  there  was  nothing 
to  prevent  them  from  learning  a  trade  whether  in 
Paris  or  outside  the  capital,  but  the  foreigner  was 
dismissed  from  his  apprenticeship  before  his  term 
was  complete,  so  that  he  could  never  attain  to  the 
rank  of  master. 

All   the   trading   corporations   were  jealous    and 
exclusive   bodies,    and   admission    to   them   was    a 


APPRENTICE,    WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER      139 

ceremonious  and  often  a  solemn  affair.  In  many- 
instances  the  young  candidate  was  required  to  swear 
upon  the  relics  of  a  saint  that  he  would  be  obedient 
to  the  statutes  of  the  trade  he  was  to  learn  ;  a  good 
deal  to  demand  from  a  mere  lad,  but  his  oath  con- 
stituted the  little  person  a  member  of  his  corporation, 
and  as  such  his  master  was  bound  thenceforth  to 
recognise  him.  The  terms  of  his  contract  set  forth 
the  number  of  apprentices  the  master  might  receive 
(one  only,  as  a  rule),  the  fee  that  must  be  paid,  and 
the  term  of  years  which  the  apprentice  must  fulfil. 
No  master  who  was  a  bachelor  was  allowed  more 
than  one  apprentice,  and  the  same  rule  applied  to 
the  married  master  whose  wife  did  not  assist  him  in 
the  business.  An  exception  was  made  in  favour  of 
the  Jures,  or  sworn  heads  of  the  corporation,  who 
had  a  large  part  in  its  administration,  and  who  were 
permitted  to  receive  two  apprentices. 

The  science  of  economics  was  in  its  infancy ;  it 
was  considered  injurious  to  the  interests  of  a  trade 
that  there  should  be  too  many  masters  in  it,  and  the 
number  of  these  was  necessarily  limited  by  limiting 
the  number  of  apprentices.  The  rule  as  to  limitation 
aimed  also  at  the  retention  of  trades  in  the  hands  of 
families.  A  master  who  had  no  son  to  succeed  him 
would  seek,  if  there  were  a  daughter  of  the  house, 
to  marry  her  to  his  apprentice.     If  he  had  sons  or 


140  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

stepsons,  they  were  received  into  his  trade  on  the 
easiest  possible  terms,  and  the  road  to  the  maitrite 
or  mastership  was  smoothed  for  them  throughout. 
The  goldsmiths  might  receive  'as  apprentices  (in 
addition  to  the  stranger)  almost  any  male  member 
of  the  family. 

For  the  apprentice  who  came  in  from  without,  the 
path  to  the  goal  of  mastership  and  freedom  was,  in 
most  trades,  a  long  and  tedious  travel.  The  car- 
penters gave  credentials  to  their  apprentices  at  the 
end  of  four  years,  but  in  most  instances  the  youths 
were  bound  for  a  much  longer  period.  With  the 
dyers  it  was  five  years,  with  the  drapers  seven,  with 
the  lapidaries,  upholsterers,  enamellers,  and  some 
others  it  extended  to  ten  years.  Where  the  term 
was  of  great  length,  it  might  be  reduced  by  the 
payment  of  a  sum  of  money  on  the  part  of  the 
apprentice  or  his  parents,  an  indulgence  which 
seems  to  have  been  a  good  deal  abused  in  later 
centuries,  when  Jures  were  less  strict  in  the  per- 
formance of  their  duties,  and  masters  were  keener 
on  making  profits  out  of  their  young  men  than  on 
turning  out  a  finished  workman. 

By  the  rules  of  the  book  the  master  was  held 
greatly  responsible  for  his  apprentice;  and  in  the 
old  times  beyond,  under  a  wise  and  kindly  roof,  the 
lad  who  was  learning  to  be  a  master-workman  and 


APPRENTICE,   WORKMAN,   AND  MASTER      141 

a  ruler  in  his  little  world,  might  lead  a  happy  and  a 
profitable  life.  Often  he  did  so,  and  when  the  day- 
came  that  he  might  claim  his  freedom,  he  chose 
rather  to  remain  the  paid  servant,  friend,  and  fellow- 
worker  of  the  master  who  had  sheltered  him  from 
boyhood,  and  taught  him  all  his  craft,  than  to  seek  a 
fortune  less  assured  to  him  elsewhere.  During  the 
years  of  his  apprenticeship  the  patron  or  master  was 
to  feed,  clothe,  and  shelter  him — in  the  homely 
wording  of  the  clockmakers'  rule,  to  cherish  him 
'  beneath  his  roof,  at  his  board,  and  by  his  hearth ' 
('  sous  son  toit,  a  sa  table,  et  a  son  feu ').  Nay,  it 
was  strictly  enjoined  upon  the  master  to  treat  his 
apprentice  '  as  his  own  son,'  and  in  some  trades  he 
was  bidden  to  remember  that  his  responsibility  did 
not  end  on  the  threshold  of  the  workshop,  that  the 
'  soul  and  morals '  of  the  little  stranger  had  claims 
on  his  solicitude.  In  a  day  when  the  streets  of 
Paris  were  not  very  nice  for  anybody,  and  were 
more  or  less  dangerous  after  dark  for  everybody, 
the  master  was  instructed  to  be  careful  on  what 
errand  he  despatched  the  youngster ;  and  the  pas- 
trycooks, whose  apprentices  were  often  sent  to  cry 
cakes  and  creams  upon  the  public  ways,  were  con- 
tinually warned  to  prevent  the  lads  from  falling 
among  evil  company.  It  seems  certain  that,  so  far 
as  tho  middle  ages  are  concerned,  the  rules,  pre- 


142  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

oepts,  and  admonitions  were  not  only  framed  with 
great  good  sense  and  care,  but  were  very  rigidly 
enforced  upon  all  masters  who  had  lads  and  youths 
in  their  employ.  High  and  low  in  the  society  of 
that  day  the  rod  and  birch  were  flourished,  with  small 
discrimination  and  less  nicety ;  and  if  the  tutors  of 
little  princes  had  leave  to  whip  them  freely,  appren- 
tices oould  not  expect  to  come  off  too  lightly  at  a 
master's  hand.  The  use  of  the  rod  was  accorded  to 
the  patron  (though,  by  the  way,  it  was  expressly 
forbidden  to  his  wife,  in  whom  the  young  appren- 
tice seems  not  always  to  have  found  a  mother),  but 
the  apprentice  who  carried  the  marks  of  a  cruel 
beating  to  the  Jures  of  his  trade  obtained  such 
satisfaction  as  the  little  prince  could  seldom  count 
on.  The  apprentice  who  ran  away  might  not  be 
replaced  until  his  master  had  both  searched  and 
waited  for  him  (the  period  of  grace  extending  in 
many  instances  to  six  months),  a  statute  designed 
in  part  for  the  protection  of  youths  whom  ill-usage 
tempted  to  break  their  bonds.  The  runaway,  on 
the  other  hand,  should  carry  his  grievance  at  once 
to  the  governing  body  of  the  trade ;  until  his  case 
had  been  settled  it  was  not  permitted  to  other 
members  of  the  trade  to  harbour  him,  and  those 
who  did  so  were  '  sent  to  Coventry,'  and  found  no 
buyers  for  their  goods  in  the  markets  of  Paris. 


APPRENTICE,  WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER        US 

The  contract  of  apprenticeship  might  be  annulled 
by  rente  or  by  rachat.  In  the  first  case,  that  of  the 
vente,  or  sale,  a  master  had  permission  in  certain 
circumstances  to  dispose  of  or  •  sell '  his  apprentice 
to  another  master  of  the  same  trade,  in  return  for  a 
sum  of  money  which  stood  as  the  equivalent  of  the 
unexpired  term  of  service.  This  arrangement  was 
permissible  (1)  where  the  master  was  incapacitated 
by  mortal  sickness,  (2)  where  he  was  setting  forth 
on  pilgrimage,  (3)  where  he  was  retiring  from  busi- 
ness, and  (4)  where  he  had  fallen  into  bankruptcy. 
In  the  second  case,  that  of  the  rachat,  or  ransom,  the 
apprentice  redeemed  or  bought  himself  out  in  ad- 
vance of  the  term  agreed  upon  in  his  indentures ; 
but  where  this  was  done,  the  master  could  not 
engage  another  apprentice  until  the  legal  time  of 
the  first  one  had  expired. 

In  general,  however,  the  apprentice  served  to  the 
full  his  proper  period  of  four,  five,  seven,  or  ten 
years,  upon  the  lapse  of  which  he  was  seldom  un- 
prepared to  present  himself  to  the  examiners.  Eight 
days  from  the  term  of  his  apprenticeship,  the  master 
who  had  taught  him  led  the  aspirant  before  the 
jurors,  who  required  of  him  a  taste  of  his  quality. 
If  a  dyer,  he  must  show  his  hand  '  subdu'd  to  what 
it  works  in '  by  dyeing  so  many  different  pieces  of 
fabrics.'     The  potter  must  prove  his  power  over  the 


144  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

clay.  The  weaver  would  be  set  to  weave  an  ell  of 
velvet,  satin,  damask,  and  brocade.  The  tailor  was 
required  to  fashion  a  doublet,  and  the  sword-cutler 
to  furnish  forth  a  blade.  If  in  this  essay  the  aspirant 
failed  to  show  himself  an  artist,  he  was  sent  back  to 
the  atelier  for  another  twelve  months'  'prenticeship. 
If,  in  the  other  scale,  he  won  the  experts'  suffrages, 
he  became  in  that  hour  a  free  man,  with  a  trade  in 
his  hand  which  set  him  above  the  favour  of  kings, 
and  a  voice  of  authority  in  the  small  community 
which  was  his  world. 

What  degree  of  material  prosperity  was  enjoyed 
by  the  full-fledged  ouvrier,  or  workman,  in  mediasval 
France,  what  his  weekly  or  monthly  wage  stood 
him  in,  what  it  cost  him  to  keep  a  roof  over  his 
head  and  a  family  in  food  and  clothes,  what  sums 
he  could  put  by,  or  what  he  could  lay  out  upon  his 
pleasures  we  do  not  rightly  know ;  for  every  effort 
to  determine  the  relative  values  of  the  monies  in 
circulation  has  been  in  reality  fruitless.  (Indeed,  we 
may  come  down  to  a  very  much  later  period,  and 
remain  as  completely  uninformed  upon  this  point.) 
In  time  of  dearth,  which  was  of  very  frequent 
recurrence  through  all  the  middle  ages,  the  work- 
man would  feel  the  pinch  of  hunger,  but  perhaps 
not  quite  so  sharply  as  some  of  those  who  had 
neither  part  nor  lot  in  the  organised  communities  of 


APPRENTICE,   WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER      145 

trade  and  commerce.  Plague,  which  stole  in  so 
often  on  the  tracks  of  famine,  would  take  its  toll 
from  him.  Unjust  laws  of  king  or  parliament  would 
not  always  find  him  shielded  by  the  segis  of  his 
guild.  He  lived  in  an  age  in  which  the  general 
standard  of  comfort  was  extremely  low  ;  dwellings 
mean,  meagre,  and  insanitary ;  fuel  scant  and  dear, 
and  artificial  lighting  of  the  poorest.  Ills  and  de- 
privations such  as  these,  however,  he  endured  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  France  ;  and  if  his  general 
condition  be  compared  with  that  of  the  artisan  or 
labourer  in  the  France  or  England  of  to-day,  the 
comparison  is  little  to  his  disadvantage. 

In  his  contracted  sphere  the  mediaeval  workman 
was  a  person  not  lacking  in  importance.  All  mem- 
bers of  the  guild  were  solidaires,  responsible,  that  is 
to  say,  for  its  conduct,  its  safety  in  the  State,  its 
well-being,  and  its  production  of  articles  which 
were  never  to  fall  away  from  an  approved  standard 
of  workmanship.  The  individual  workman  was 
made  to  respect  himself  in  the  atelier  by  the  quality 
of  work  that  was  demanded  from  him — rapidity 
of  production  oounting  as  nothing  in  comparison 
with  excellence — and  he  felt  his  importance  as  a 
man  whenever  a  question  vital  to  the  prosperity  of 
his  trade  came  up  to  be  discussed.  For  politics,  so 
disturbing  an  influence  in  the  modern  trade  union, 

L 


H6  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  guilds  substituted  an  intelligent  interest  in  their 
own  affairs,  which  was  directed  to  combined  and 
concerted  action  for  the  common  benefit.  Competi- 
tion was  discountenanced  as  injurious  to  the  welfare 
of  the  craft,  and  everything  that  savoured  of  adver- 
tisement was  energetically  damned.  Production  was 
everywhere  on  a  small  and  narrow  scale.  The 
changes  to  be  brought  about  by  the  employment  of 
enormous  capital  were  not  even  imagined — the 
gigantic  factory  with  ingenious  machines  for  every 
process ;  the  army  of  workpeople,  from  the  child 
who  picks  up  loose  threads  or  ties  together  broken 
threads  on  a  spinning  jenny,  and  the  man  who 
spends  a  lifetime  in  fitting  a  particular  piece  of 
metal  into  a  particular  socket,  up  to  the  skilled 
overseer  ;  the  innumerable  subsidiary  industries 
which  have  grown  up  to  meet  the  wants  of  the 
great  factory,  the  tool-makers  and  machine-makers, 
the  carrying  and  railway  companies  which  help  to 
distribute  the  manufactured  goods,  the  steamship 
companies  which  transport  them  to  the  ends  of  the 
world,  the  commercial  travellers  and  newspapers 
engaged  in  advertising  them,  and  the  bankers  who 
facilitate  the  payments.  But  up  to  a  certain  point 
the  simple  and  humble  system  on  which  trade  began 
had  its  advantages,  and  it  was  the  individual  work- 
man who  knew  and  felt  them.     The  patron  was  not 


APPRENTICE,    WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER      147 

then  the  general  of  an  army  who  plans  operations, 
organises  means,  and  superintends  the  execution,  but 
■who  stands  apart  from,  and  immeasurably  above, 
the  common  body  to  whom  his  orders  are  trans- 
mitted, and  by  whom  they  are  obeyed.  He  was 
just  a  skilled  craftsman,  whom  a  little  capital 
(capital,  as  we  mean  it,  was  absurdly  small  in  those 
days)  had  enabled  to  start  in  business,  but  who 
could  not  indulge  himself  with  fine  clothes  or  a 
house  in  the  suburbs,  and  whose  social  station  dis- 
tinguished him  scarcely  at  all  from  his  hired  hands. 
Not  only  did  he  live  as  they  lived,  but  he  worked  in 
his  shop  with  them  ;  and  thus  the  craft  guilds,  while 
they  fostered  honesty  of  work,  fostered  also  a  sense 
of  equality  and  brotherly  kindness. 

To  seek  to  enrich  oneself  at  the  expense  of  a 
brother  of  one's  own  corporation  was  held  dishon- 
orable. At  the  moment  at  which  two  members  of  a 
trade  were  striking  a  bargain  over  certain  goods,  if 
a  third  appeared  on  the  scene,  he  was  entitled  to 
allot  a  portion  to  himself  on  payment  of  the  sum 
agreed  upon.  The  millers  on  the  Grand  Pont, 
masters  and  workmen  both,  were  under  oath  to 
assist  each  other  in  the  event  of  an  overflow  of  the 
river.  Among  the  belt-makers  and  buckle-makers, 
the  orphans  of  masters  left  without  fortune  were 
apprenticed  at  the  charge  of  the   crafts.     Among 

L  2 


148  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  leather-dressers,  a  master  rich  enough  to  employ 
three  workmen  at  wages,  was  bound  to  lend  one  to 
a  confrere  in  temporary  need  of  assistance.  The 
crier  of  burials,  when  deaths  were  not  numerous, 
undertook  to  cry  only  one  in  the  day,  that  his 
brethren  might  not  miss  their  share.  A  guildsman 
whose  tender  had  been  accepted  for  some  large 
contract,  such  as  the  equipping  of  a  regiment,  was 
expected  to  share  the  work  among  the  members  of 
his  guild.  The  shoemakers  bound  themselves  to 
pay  .the  same  wages  to  all  their  workmen.  Mer- 
chants convicted  of  underselling  those  of  their  own 
craft  were  subjected  to  a  fine.  Goods  sent  from 
without  to  one  of  the  markets  of  Paris  were  deposited 
immediately  at  their  proper  depot  ;  the  Jures  of  the 
trade  concerned  visited  and  reported  upon  them,  and 
the  goods  were  apportioned  in  lots  among  those 
who  presented  themselves  as  purchasers. 

Ideas  and  schemes  of  charity  were  not  unknown. 
The  workman  whom  sickness  had  laid  by,  or  whose 
old  age  threatened  to  be  destitute,  was  always 
succoured  by  his  guild.  Among  the  glovers  and 
the  shoemakers,  fines  exacted  for  infractions  of  the 
statutes  were  bestowed  to  the  amount  of  one-half 
upon  the  needy  members  of  the  trades.  A  tailor 
who  spoiled  a  coat  was  mulcted  in  a  small  sum, 
*  half  of  which  went  to  the  king,  and  the  other  half 


APPRENTICE,    WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER      149 

to    the    Jures    for    distribution    among    the    poor 
brethren.'      The  company  of  cooks  set  apart  one- 
third  of  the  fines  levied  by  them  for  '  masters  and 
workmen  fallen  upon  evil  days.'     The  goldsmiths 
took  it  in  turn  to  keep  one  shop  in  their  craft  open 
on  Sunday,  and  the  profits  of  that  day  furnished  a 
dinner  at  Easter  for  the  sick  poor  of  the  H6tel-Dieu. 
In  1399  the    master-goldsmiths  opened  an   asylum 
for  the   indigent  and  widows  of  the    corporation. 
The  drapers,  as  often  as  they  bought  a  roll  of  cloth, 
set  aside  one  denier  towards  the  purchase  of  corn 
for  the  poor;  and  at  every  banquet  of  this  guild 
portions  of  bread,  meat,  and  wine  were  sent  to  the 
inmates  of  the  Hotel-Dieu  and  the  prisoners  of  the 
Chatelet.     The  bakers  were  prohibited  from  baking 
on  the  Day  of  the  Dead,  except  a  certain  kind  of 
bread    which    was   given   to    the   poor.     Fines    of 
poultry    and    game    among    the     poulterers    were 
divided  between  the  Hotel-Dieu  and  the  Chatelet. 
As  early  as  the  first  years  of  the  fourteenth  century 
the  furriers  had  established  among  themselves  an 
institution  closely  resembling  the  modern  '  benefit ' 
society,  each  member  paying  an  entrance  fee  and  a 
small  weekly  subscription.     The  curriers  followed 
this  example  towards  the  middle  of  the  same  century, 
and  it  was  afterwards  imitated  to  some  extent  by 
many  other  trades  in  Paris. 


150  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Instances  such  as  these  seem  to  bridge  the  interval 
of  six  hundred  years  which  divides  us  from  the 
middle  ages,  but  the  truth  of  course  is  that  the 
master-workman  of  the  earlier  epoch  would  recognise 
scarcely  anything  in  the  trading  world  of  our  era. 
Two  things  especially  (leaving  on  one  side  the 
features  of  free  and  universal  competition  and  the 
necessity  and  rage  of  advertising,  for  which  competi- 
tion is  peculiarly  responsible)  would  evoke  surprise 
in  him  in  an  almost  measureless  degree.  The  first, 
that  in  the  great  majority  of  trades  at  the  present 
day  there  is  practically  no  responsibility  amongst 
the  members,  nothing  which  corresponds  to  the 
mediaeval  principle  of  solidarity,  whereby  a  definite 
standard  of  excellence  in  manufacture  was  both 
ensured  and  enforced,  and  a  guarantee  of  fair  deal- 
ing exacted.  The  second — and  his  surprise  in  this 
instance  would  be,  perhaps,  even  greater  than  in  the 
former — that  anybody  may  open  shop  in  any  line  of 
industry,  without  being  called  upon  to  furnish  the 
slightest  proof  either  of  his  ability  or  of  his  good 
faith.  I  may  seek  to-morrow  to  bring  discredit  upon 
the  respectable  corporation  of  wine-merchants  by 
seducing  the  public  with  a  prospectus  of  new  wines 
for  old,  myself  not  knowing  old  from  new.  The 
wine-merchants  may  suspect  my  practices,  but  as 
they  no  longer  sit  in  council,  with  statutes  at  their 


APPRENTICE,    WORKMAN,   AND  MASTER      151 

tack,  if  ray  bottles  are  doctored  and  labelled  to  please 
the  tastes  of  the  general,  they  cannot  oblige  me  to 
put  up  my  shutters,  and  no  person  in  the  trade  can 
do  more  than  visit  me  with  his  private  indignation. 
Again,  my  neighbour  on  my  right,  as  unfamiliar  with 
cutlery  as  with  the  Pandects  of  Justinian,  may  start 
in  business  as  a  cutler  this  week,  intent  on  selling  at 
a  high  price  the  worst  razors  the  public  can  be  de- 
ceived into  paying  for,  and  no  honest  member  of 
that  trade  can  arraign  him.  My  neighbour  on  the 
left,  whose  private  knowledge  makes  no  distinction 
between  leather  and  prunella,  but  who  descries  a 
profitable  opening  in  the  boot-trade,  may  advertise 
and  sell  as  water-proof  a  boot  that  has  not  one 
shred  of  leather  in  its  composition,  so  long  as 
customers  can  be  found  for  the  article. 

Now,  the  quack  or  the  rogue  had  a  well-marked 
field  for  his  talent  in  mediaeval  France,  but  the 
regulated  ways  of  honest  trade  were  closed  to  him. 
It  was  impossible  for  a  trickster  or  a  mere  adven- 
turer, unversed  in  any  industry,  to  creep  into  the 
first  guild  that  attracted  his  fancy;  and  as  for 
attempting  to  embark  in  business  without  having 
taken  the  guild's  degree,  it  would  have  been  as 
easy  as  an  amateur  yachtsman  would  find  it  to  obtain 
the  command  of  a  cruiser.  The  apprentice  of  ten 
years'   standing  was  not  allowed   to   call    himself 


153  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

•  workman  '  until  he  had  proved  to  the  satisfaction 
of  a  board  of  expert  jurors  that  he  had  learned  his 
craft  to  perfection,  within  the  limits  prescribed  by 
the  guild ;  and  the  master-workman,  who  had  been 
admitted  among  the  artists  of  his  calling,  and  who 
was  allowed  as  many  hired  ouvriers  as  he  could  keep 
in  wages,  was  never  free  from  inspection  by  the 
Jures  of  his  own  corporation.  They  were  not  only 
entitled  but  compelled  to  pay  him  an  occasional 
visit  of  surprise,  and  any  defective  work  which 
they  found  in  his  hands  was  condemned  and 
destroyed. 

Up  to  a  certain  standard   of  finish,  a    standard 

adopted  by  the  trade  as  a  body,  no  craftsman  had 

any  liberty,  or  could  exercise  any  discretion  of  his 

own.     If  a  customer  wanted  a  piece  of  carving,  or  a 

length  of  cloth,  or  a  pattern  of  saddle,  or  a  silver 

bowl,  in  a  cheaper  style  than  the  standard  of  the 

trade  permitted,  it  could  not  openly  be  furnished 

to  him.     Nor,  unless  he  hoodwinked  the  inspectors, 

could  a  craftsman  in  any  industry  venture  to  sell  to 

anyone  an  article  which  he  knew  to  be  defective. 

He  was  put  upon  his  honour  to  offer  nothing  that 

was  bad,  and  if  he  attempted  it,  and  were  detected, 

he    paid    a    heavy   fine.      The    wheelwrights,   for 

example,  undertook  to  build  no  cart  such  as  they 

themselves  would  be  unwilling  to  pay  for  and  to 


APPRENTICE,   WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER      153 

use ;  and  a  cart  condemned  for  its  wheels  was 
broken  up.  Certain  kinds  of  repairs  were  strictly 
forbidden :  the  hatters  were  nut  allowed  to  dye  an 
old  hat,  nor  the  perruquiers  to  restore  an  old  wig, 
lest  the  shopman  should  be  tempted  to  sell  it  for 
new.  Piece-work,  carried  out  in  the  worker's  own 
house,  and  all  work  by  candlelight,  were  discouraged, 
discountenanced,  and  in  most  instances  disallowed. 
The  goldsmiths,  an  important  body,  could  not 
obtain  leave  to  work  by  artificial  light,  except  upon 
a  commission  for  the  king  or  a  member  of  the  royal 
family.  The  rule — all  but  universal  in  the  trades  of 
Paris — was,  that  work  must  be  done  by  day,  and  in 
the  master's  shop,  under  the  eye  of  the  customer. 
Old  engravings  show  the  shop  and  the  workshop  as 
one :  what  the  customer  asked  for  at  the  counter  he 
might  see  in  process  of  making  behind  it.  In  a  word, 
the  ugly,  the  common,  the  cheap,  and  the  second- 
rate — i.e.,  the  mass  of  effective  rubbish  which  a 
*  market  to  suit  all  tastes'  has  inflicted  on  us — could 
not  be  bought  in  the  Paris  of  the  middle  ages,  of  the 
Renaissance,  or  of  the  '  Grand  Monarque.'  The  con- 
noisseur who  happens  also  to  be  a  collector  knows 
it  to  his  cost. 

But,  when  all  has  been  said  upon  the  other  side,  it 
will  be  desirable  not  to  leave  the  last  word  with  the 
middle  ages.     We,  the  buyers  and  consumers  of  this 


154  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

day,  are  losers  by  the  lapse  of  that  system  of  manu- 
facture Avhich  insisted  that  every  article  of  industry 
should  be  good  and  durable  of  its  kind,  and  no  sys- 
tem will  arise  under  which  we  shall  be  able  to  forget 
how  right  it  is  for  the  craftsman  to  be  trained  to  his 
craft,  and  how  muoh  more  prosperous  is  the  State  in 
which  the  ignorant  or  indifferent  craftsman,  and  the 
common  rogue  or  trickster,  are  kept  at  arm's  length 
in  all  trades.  But  the  system  we  have  been  so  lightly 
discussing  had  one  very  grave  defect,  a  defect  not 
only  inimical  but  fatal  to  real  progress  wherever  it  is 
found,  a  defeot  which  had  much  to  do  with  the  ulti- 
mate ruin  of  the  craft  guilds  in  France  and  elsewhere. 
Such  were  the  tyranny  of  custom  and  the  dread  of  in- 
novation in  these  guilds,  that  the  Jures  who  laid  one 
hand  on  a  bad  piece  of  work  would  lay  the  other 
hand,  and  much  more  sternly,  upon  a  masterpiece. 
The  best  was  condemned  equally  with  the  worst. 
No  man  might  go  beyond  or  seek  to  improve  upon 
the  fixed  unalterable  standard  of  his  craft ;  the  ex- 
periments and  the  finished  products  of  original  genius 
were  denounced,  destroyed,  or  mutilated.  Inventor 
and  innovator  alike  were  suspected  either  of  seeking 
some  illicit  private  gain  or  of  drawing  inspiration 
from  magical  and  yet  darker  sources.  Not  in  the 
middle  ages,  merely,  but  in  the  comparative  enlight- 
enment of  the  seventeenth  century,   any  work   con- 


APPRENTICE,    WORKMAN,  AND  MASTER      155- 

fectioned  or  fabricated  beyond  the  statutory  limits 
of  the  trade  was  branded  as  '  occult ;'  and,  if  the 
authority  of  the  Jures  counted  for  anything,  it  passed 
forthwith  into  the  shade.  Its  author  had  only  one 
resource,  an  appeal  to  the  king. 

This  heroic  measure  was  sometimes  but  by  no 
means  always  successful.  Three  coppersmiths  con- 
trived a  new  pattern  of  morion  or  helmet,  lighter 
and  more  convenient  than  the  style  in  use,  and  sub- 
mitted it  to  their  guild.  But  the  guild  would  have 
none  of  it,  for  the  new  morion  defied  the  rules ; 
moreover,  the  armourers,  who  had  a  monopoly  of 
the  manufacture  of  defensive  arms,  would  be  certain 
to  oppose  them.  In  this  strait,  the  inventors  ad- 
dressed themselves  to  the  king,  who,  overriding  all 
the  customs  of  the  crafts,  granted  them  a  patent 
for  their  morion. 


156 


THE  SURGEONS,  THE  BARBERS,  AND 
THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE. 

SURGERY  begins  in  France  (and  elsewhere?)  not 
with  the  surgeons  but  with  the  barbers.  '  La  chirurgie 
francaise,'  says  M.  Franklin,  '  a  ete  creee  par  les  bar- 
biers  ;  ceci  est  hors  de  doute.'     He  continues  : 

'  Our  surgeons  of  to-day  are  the  direct  and  imme- 
diate descendants  of  the  barbers ;  not  of  that  little  body 
of  sworn  surgeons  (chirurgiens  jures)  whose  sole  am- 
bition was  t®  copy  the  doctors,  to  have  as  muoh 
Latin  as  the  doctors  (*  de  savoir  comme  eux  le  latin '), 
and  whose  dignity  was  hopelessly  compromised  by 
any  handling  of  the  scalpel.  The  barbers,  it  is  true, 
spoke  nothing  but  French;  but  they  were  never 
ashamed  of  their  trade,  and  they  did  not  scruple  to 
soil  their  hands  in  the  dissecting-room.  In  the  ranks 
of  the  old  surgeons,  so-called,  you  will  find  it  hard  to 
come  across  a  man  of  real  worth  ('  on  ne  recontre  pas 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  157 

un  homme  de  r£elle  valeur ').  Every  surgeon  whose 
memory  soience  has  preserved  to  us  was  a  member 
of  the  humble  corporation  of  barbers.  To  have 
descended  from  that  corporation  is  to  claim  descent 
with  the  good  and  great  Ambroise  Pare,  the  father 
of  modern  surgery.'* 

The  struggle  of  the  barbers  against  the  prejudice 
of  five  centuries  is  an  instructive  chapter  in  the  his- 
tory of  France.  M.  Franklin,  a  philosopher  with  a 
wit,  thinks  it  might  be  written  afresh  as  a  moral  tale 
for  the  young :  '  Le  bon  Fridolin  et  le  mechant 
Thierry.'  The  good  Fridolin  to  stand  for  the  barbers, 
who,  '  maltreated  now  by  the  surgeons  and  now  by 
the  doctors,  came  at  last,  by  perseverance  and  by 
labour,  to  win  the  day  over  both  their  rivals.' 

Not  until  Louis  XIV.  mounted  the  throne  did  the 
surgeons,  recognising  their  helplessness,  join  forces 
with  the  ignoble  barbers.  The  corporation,  whioh 
included  the  members  of  these  two  callings,  became 
from  that  date  the  target  of  the  old-fashioned,  stiff- 
necked,  and  pedantic  Faculty  of  Medicine,  which 
was  afraid  of  the  surgeons  and  contemptuous  of  the 
barbers,  and  entirely  united  in  its  hatred  of  both. 
Surgeons  and  barbers  alike,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Faculty,  were  '  poor  devils  of  artisans,'  not  fit  to 

*  'Les  Chirurgiens.'  In  the  Series  of  'La  Vie  Privet  d' Autrefois.' 


158  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

scour  a  doctor's  doorstep.  They  kept  shop  in  the 
street,  barbers  and  surgeons  both,  with  a  sign  over 
the  door.  '  The  Faculty  took  to  itself  the  right  and 
monopoly  of  instructing  them  in  an  art  which  it 
despised,  and  which  it  made  a  boast  of  never  practis- 
ing. These  booted  lacqueys  should  wear  neither 
gown  nor  cap ;  they  should  swear  obedience  to  the 
all-puissant  Faculty.  Well,  a  day  came  when  those 
pariahs  of  the  medical  art  not  merely  took  equal  rank 
with  the  doctors,  but,  by  a  just  decree  of  fortune, 
were  practically  set  above  them,  and  enjcyed  an 
almost  higher  reputation  in  the  general  esteem.' 

To  work  with  the  hands  at  any  occupation  what- 
ever was  to  be  accounted  little  better  than  a  serf  in 
France  until  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
All  *  manual  labour' — the  most  honourable,  the  most 
useful,  the  most  ornamental — placed  the  worker  in- 
exorably '  dans  la  classe  ouvriere.'  The  artist  whose 
brush  could  set  a  masterpiece  upon  his  canvas  was 
on  a  level  with  the  dauber  of  signboards,  and  sub- 
jected to  the  laws  which  controlled  every  corporation 
ouvriere.  The  painter  or  sculptor  of  genius  was,  for 
a  long  time,  the  social  inferior  of  the  mercer,  who 
1  kept  a  shop,'  it  is  true,  but  who  did  not  make  with 
his  own  hands  the  things  he  sold  over  his  counter. 
The  Academy  of  Painting,  founded  in  1648  by  the 
"*  painters  and  sculptors  of  his  Majesty,'  was  years  in 


THE  SURGEON -BARBERS  151) 

getting  a  fair  distinction  established  between  the 
*  workman '  and  the  '  artist.'  And  the  mercers  who 
were  ranked  above  the  confraternities  of  the  brush 
and  chisel  were  ranked  also,  says  M.  Franklin,  '  very 
much '  above  the  surgeons,  who,  after  their  amal- 
gamation with  the  barbers,  continued  to  form  a  mere 
corporation  ouvriere,  and  were  formally  classed  with 
'  artisans  and  common  labourers.'  The  social  and 
legal  bonds  which  united  them  with  the  classe  ouv- 
rilre  were  finally  and  completely  severed  only  by 
Louis  XV.'s  Declaration  of  1743  ;  and  right  up  to  the 
Revolution  a  fashionable  doctor  was  held  to  demean 
himself  by  the  act  of  bleeding  a  patient. 

In  the  very  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
surgeon  who  sought  to  better  his  position  by  pro- 
curing the  licence  en  mklecine  must  give  an  under- 
taking in  the  presence  of  notaries  that  he  would 
perform  nothing  in  the  nature  of  a  surgical  operation, 
for,  said  the  Faculty,  '  the  dignity  of  the  Medical 
Order  must  be  kept  pure  and  intact.'  Louis  XIV.,  in 
the  act  of  ennobling  the  surgeon  Clement,  who  had 
presided  over  the  accouchement  of  the  Duchesse  do 
la  Valliere,  expressly  stipulated  that  he  should  not  be 
required  to  renounce  his  profession.  So  also  did  he 
insist,  when  bestowing  the  patent  of  nobility  upon 
his  own  chief  surgeon,'F41ix,  that  he  should  continue 
to  enjoy  his  surgeon's  title  '  without  reproach  !' 


160  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Something  of  this  reproach,  as  touching  the  sur- 
geon and  his  calling,  we  may  trace  to  the  influence 
of  the  mediaeval  Church, — which  has  already  so 
much  to  answer  for.  In  the  middle  ages  everyone 
who  could  read  and  write  was  a  '  clerk,'  and  had  his 
being  in  the  Church,  or  under  the  Church's  immediate 
patronage.  Now  it  had  been  taught  in  very  early 
days  that  'Ecclesia  abhorret  a  sanguine.'  ('The 
Church  holds  blood  in  abhorrence.')  The  precept 
was  perhaps  not  too  literally  observed  in  later  days, 
but  it  availed  to  restrain  the  '  clerkly '  classes  from 
the  study  and  practice  of  surgery,  and  thus  indirect- 
ly to  deliver  that  luckless  art  into  the  keeping  of 
1  charlatans,  old  women,  and  barbers.' 

Towards  the  thirteenth  century,  however,  accord- 
ing to  M.  Franklin,  a  glimmer  of  light  appeared.  A 
few  barbers  of  intelligence  endeavoured  to  put  a 
little  spirit  into  their  brethren.  '  They  left  off  shav- 
ing and  hair-cutting  in  order  to  devote  themselves 
exclusively  to  surgical  operations,  and  at  the  same 
time  they  instituted  a  special  inner  circle  of  the  con- 
fraternity, and  invoked  for  it  the  protection  of  St. 
Come  and  St.  Damien,'  two  blessed  practitioners 
supposed  to  have  cultivated  the  art  in  Arabia.  Their 
statutes,  '  like  those  of  most  other  artisans,'  were 
submitted  for  the  approval  of  the  provost  of  Paris, 
by  whom  they  were  forbidden  to  render  secret  as- 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  161 

sistance  to  '  murderers  or  other  villains,'  whom  jus- 
tice proposed  to  heal  or  to  dissect  on  its  own  account. 
The  community  was  administered  in  ordinary  by 
six  chief  persons  elected  by  the  rest  of  their  fellows. 
Thus,  from  about  the  thirteenth  century,  we  have  a 
small  body  of  surgeons  forming  a  special  class  among 
the  general  (and  not  very  numerous)  corporation  of 
barbers. 

It  has  been  insisted  by  certain  historians,  interest- 
ed in  giving  the  profession  a  decent  start  at  the 
earliest  possible  date,  that  the  College  of  Surgeons 
was  founded  by  St.  Louis  ;  but  the  truth  is  that  the 
surgeons  did  not  possess  a  college  of  any  sort  for  at 
least  two  centuries  from  that  pious  monarch's  reign. 
It  is  important  mainly  to  note  that,  from  near  the 
close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  corporation  of 
barbers  was  divided  into  two  classes.  There  were  the 
lay-barbers,  known  later  as  barber-surgeons,  and 
surgeons  of  the  short  gown ;  and  barber-clerks, 
named  also  surgeon-barbers,  surgeons  of  St.  C6me, 
and  surgeons  of  the  long  gown.  The  chief  preoccu- 
pation of  the  second  class,  says  M.  Franklin,  was  to 
keep  the  lay-barbers  at  arm's  length,  to  acquire  the 
style  and  dignity  of  corps  savant,  and  to  tread  on  the 
heels  of  the  doctors. 

Italy  at  this  time  possessed  surgeons  '  really 
worthy  of  the   name,'   and  the   civil  wars   in   that 

M 


162  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

country  exiled  to  Paris  in  1205  two  distinguished 
professors,  one  of  whom,  Lanfranc  of  Milan,  became 
the  friend  and  ally  of  barber  Jean  Pitard,  who 
served  in  succession  Philippe  IV.,  Louis  X.,  Philippe 
V.,  and  Charles  IV.  These  twain  of  courage  and  ad- 
dress carried  war  into  the  camp  of  the  lay-barbers, 
a  humble  folk,  and  for  the  most  part  honestly  unlet- 
tered, who  were  not  very  safe  in  the  handling  of  any 
other  instrument  than  the  razor.  Ostensibly,  Lan- 
franc and  Pitard  were  reformers  in  the  interests  of 
practical  and  scientific  surgery;  in  reality,  their 
action  signalled  the  commencement  of  that  struggle 
for  supremacy  between  the  two  classes  of  barbers 
which  was  not  to  cease  within  four  hundred  years 
and  odd. 

The  surgeons,  or  surgeon-barbers,  drew  the  first 
blood.  A  royal  ordonnance  of  1311  forbade  the 
practice  of  surgery  to  '  those  barbers  not  recognised 
as  apt  for  the  business '  ('  qui  n'auraient  pas  ete 
reconnus  aptes  a  ce  metier ').  They  must  hold  the 
certificate  of  Jean  Pitard,  '  surgeon  of  the  Chatelet, 
or  his  successors.'  Forty  years  later,  in  1352  (Pitard 
being  by  this  time  out  of  the  lists),  Jean  II.  rendered 
a  new  decree  against  the  '  barbiers  illettres,'  observ- 
ing with  regret  that  '  the  art  of  surgery  was  passing 
into  unworthy  hands,'  that  it  was  attempted  to  be 
practised  by  '  charlatans,  alchemists,  usurers,  robbers, 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  163 

and  assassins,' — a  singular  crew  to  be  banded  in  the 
interests  of  a  most  pacific  calling.  This  edict  was 
renewed  in  1364,  the  last  year  of  Jean  II. 's  reign ; 
during  the  fourteenth  century  laws  were  passed, 
re-enacted  at  intervals,  and  scrupulously  disobeyed, 
quite  as  a  matter  of  form.  John's  successor  on  the 
throne,  Charles  V.  (the  Wise),  not  quite  clear  as  to 
the  merits  of  the  quarrel,  and  regally  indifferent  to 
them,  '  admitted  the  two  classes  of  barbers  to  equal 
rights  in  the  practice  of  surgery,'  and  put  them  both 
under  the  charge  of  his  own  chief  barber  (1371). 
The  two  classes  were  now  again  one  corporation, 
but  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  lay-barber  had 
gained  a  march  upon  the  clerk-barber,  or  surgeon. 
For  the  barbers  'as  a  body,'  said  the  king,  were 
to  '  have  the  care  of  the  sick,  and  to  perform  all 
surgical  operations ;'  and  the  royal  edict  went  on  to 
particularise  the  case  of  the  barbers  whom  the 
*  sworn  surgeons  and  doctors '  had  hindered  in  the 
exercise  of  their  calling,  '  to  the  great  prejudice  of 
the  public  weal  and  of  all  our  subjects,  and  to  the 
especial  prejudice  of  poor  and  humble  folk  who 
cannot  buy  the  services  of  great  surgeons  and 
physicians.'  Ordained  accordingly,  that  the  said 
barbers  should  have  the  full  and  free  exercise  of 
their  art,  unmolested  by  the  surgeon-barbers  and 
the  doctors. 

M  2 


164  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

It  may  be  admitted  readily  enough  that  the 
decree  of  1371  went  a  step  too  far,  inasmuch  as  it 
gave  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  skilled  surgeon 
and  physician  to  every  charlatan  who  could  get 
leave  to  hang  over  his  door  the  barber's  sign  of  the 
three  basins ;  but  Charles  V.,  M.  Franklin  reminds 
us,  was  under  the  thumb  of  his  '  premier  barbier,' 
who  was  bent  on  scoring  for  his  own  side. 

Thrown  over  by  the  king,  the  surgeon-barbers 
betook  themselves  to  the  University  of  Paris,  and 
humbly  begged  asylum  in  that  mighty  and  majestic 
bosom.  They  were  not  quite  unworthy,  they 
pleaded,  of  such  august  protection.  '  We  have 
passed  examinations,'  they  said,  '  whereas  this 
herd  of  barbers  has  made  a  mock  of  learning.'  But 
the  University  treated  them  flippantly,  counselling 
them  to  return  to  school.  It  would  receive  them  as 
scholars  at  its  own  benches  (or  in  the  rushes,  rather), 
but  not  on  any  other  footing, — 'tanquam  veri 
scholares  et  non  alias.' 

Half  a  century  later,  in  1436,  the  surgeon-barbers 
knocked  at  the  door  again.  Would  the  University 
receive  them  this  time  ?  The  books  were  turned  up, 
to  see  what  answer  had  been  given  in  Charles  V.'s 
reign  (it  being  now  the  era  of  Charles  VII.),  and 
the  same  response  preoisely  was  vouchsafed.  The 
University   would   extend   its    protection    and    its 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  165 

privileges  to  the  fraternity  of  surgeon-barbers,  if 
they  were  willing  to  take  their  places  in  its  classes, 

*  which  could  not  but  prove  beneficial.' 

The  barber-surgeons  were  not  concerning  them- 
selves with  the  intrigues  of  the  surgeon-barbers  ;  a 
kindly  fortune  was  steadily  directing  their  affairs. 
A  few  years  from  this,  Louis  XL  came  to  the 
throne,  and  the  celebrated  barber  of  that  king, 
Olivier  Le  Daim,  or  Le  Dain,  zealous  for  his  class, 
obtained  confirmation  of  the  rights  accorded  in  1371. 
Olivier  Le  Dain  was  a  good  champion  and  a  bad 
foe,  and  the  surgeon-barbers  had  met  their  match. 
The  king's  barber  was  declared  '  maistre  du  mestier,' 
the  head  of  the  profession.  Vanquished  by  the 
barbers,  the  surgeons  found  their  account  next  with 
the  Faculty  of  Medicine,  a  more  redoubtable 
adversary. 

We  are  now  within  touch  of  the  sixteenth 
century ;  and  from  this  date,  observes  M.  Franklin, 

*  it  is  the  doctors  who  hold  the  office  of  arbiter  be- 
tween the  barbers  and  the  surgeons.  Were  they 
worthy  of  it  ?  By  no  means.  Nay,  if  we  were  to 
assign  their  classes  to  the  three  parties  in  order  of 
actual  merit,  we  should  place  the  barbers  in  the 
first  and  the  doctors  of  the  Faculty  in  the  third. 
Servile  disciples  of  Hippocrates  and  Galen,  the 
doctors   confounded   the   teaching   of    those   great 


166  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

masters  in  the  pedantic  jargon  of  their  commentaries. 
The  surgeons,  for  their  part,  were  scarcely  more 
sincere  in  their  devotion  to  the  science  of  their  art. 
Ashamed  to  wield  the  scalpel,  they  were  beginning 
to  forsake  the  practical  side  of  surgery  for  the  study 
of  Greek  and  Latin .  .  .  The  barbers,  sadly  defective 
in  Greek  and  Latin,  could  borrow  nothing  from  the 
past.  But  they  saw  with  their  eyes,  and  touched 
with  their  hands,  and,  perhaps  unwittingly,  they 
fell  back  upon  that  principle  which  was  to  revivify 
the  whole  art  of  medicine,  the  great  principle  of 
observation.' 

By  way  of  check  to  the  wily  advances  of  the 
surgeons,  the  Faculty  drew  to  itself  the  barbers, 
those  very  ignorant  persons  from  whom,  in  its  own 
opinion,  it  had  nothing  whatever  to  fear.  Casting 
tradition  to  the  winds,  the  Faculty  consented  to 
admit  the  barbers  to  a  course  of  anatomy  in  French. 
The  step  was  revolutionary,  for  Latin  was  the  sole 
speech  of  the  learned,  and  the  Faculty  was  nothing 
if  not  savante.  The  surgeons  put  out  a  wrathful 
protest,  and  the  Faculty  withdrew  a  little.  The  Latin 
anatomists  should  be  read  to  the  barbers,  and  then 
minutely  expounded  in  the  vulgar  tongue.  Further, 
the  barbers  should  have  leave  to  purchase  from  the 
gibbet  a  criminal  corpse  for  anatomical  purposes, — a 
privilege  which,  as  will  presently  appear,  the  Faculty 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  167 

was  very  chary  of  bestowing  upon  persons  not  of 
its  own  order.  The  barbers,  it  is  said,  profited  so 
well  by  these  imperfect  lessons  in  anatomy  that 
they  soon  outstripped  the  surgeons,  and  gained 
a  great  reputation  for  their  skill  in  operations. 

Baffled  again,  the  surgeons  feigned  humility,  and 
sought  leave  to  share  the  anatomical  course  of  their 
rivals,  which  was  granted.  Emboldened  by  this 
partial  capitulation  of  the  surgeons,  the  Faculty  took 
a  more  decisive  step.  With  the  approval  of  Oudin 
de  Mondoucet,  Louis  Xll.'s  chief  barber,  it  formed  a 
fresh  pact  with  its  new  allies,  engaging  to  give 
them  all  needful  instruction,  not  in  Latin,  but  in  the 
mother  tongue,  and  'to  support  them  on  all  occa- 
sions in  the  exercise  of  the  art  of  surgery.'  The 
barbers  on  their  side  were  to  swear  fealty  to  the 
Faculty,  to  submit  themselves  to  be  examined  by 
its  doctors,  and  to  abstain  from  the  practice  of 
medicine. 

This  treaty  ratified,  the  surgeons,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  Faculty,  had  ceased  their  existence.  The 
doctors  'called  in  none  but  barbers  to  operate  on 
their  patients.' 

The  surgeons  perceived  that  their  case  was  grow- 
ing desperate.  They  saw  but  one  clear  course, 
which  was  to  treat  with  the  adversary  whiles  he 
was  in  the  way.    At  all  cost  of  dignity  a  peace  must 


168  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

be  patched  up  with  the  Faculty.  To  the  Faculty 
they  went  accordingly,  and  their  address,  if  not 
wholly  ingenuous,  was  excellent  pleading.  It  had 
reached  them  by  the  tongue  of  rumour,  said  their 
spokesman,  that  malevolent  persons  gossiped  of 
their  disaffection  towards  the  august  and  thrice- 
honourable  Faculty  of  Medicine,  even  going  so  far 
as  to  declare  that  the  surgeons  of  Paris  were  neither 
its  scholars  nor  its  subjects.  '  But,  worthy  sirs,  we 
are  both ;  and  never  did  we  think  of  denying  it.' 
Nay,  they  had  brought  notaries  with  them,  in  whose 
presence  they  were  prepared  to  make  the  declara- 
tion in  the  proper  form.  The  doyen  of  the  Faculty, 
by  whom  the  surgeons  were  received,  took  their 
oath  on  the  spot,  and  peace  was  formally  concluded. 
This  passed  in  1507,  when  the  last  of  the  mediaeval 
kings  was  on  the  throne.  Thus,  at  the  dawn  of  the 
Renaissance,  victory  was  wholly  with]  the  Faculty. 
Over  the  surgeons  and  barbers  both  it  had  cast  its 
net ;  but  the  peace  was  scarcely  ratified  before  the 
surgeons  were  straining  at  the  meshes. 

The  situation  at  the  commencement  of  the  six- 
teenth century  is  thus  set  forth  by  M.  Franklin  : — 

(i.)  The  surgeons  had  to  some  extent  the  upper 
hand  of  the  barbers,  who  could  only  be  received  as 
'masters  in  the  art'  after  the  surgeons  had  exam- 
ined and  approved  them.     This  was  the  result  of  a 


THE  SURGEON -BARBERS  169 

private  understanding  between  the  surgeons  and 
the  Faculty  after  the  conclusion  of  the  triple 
alliance. 

fii.)  The  Faculty  of  Medicine  was  in  authority 
over  both  its  allies,  inasmuch  as  '  the  doctors'  con- 
sent and  approval  were  necessary  to  the  reception 
of  both  barbers  and  surgeons.' 

(iii.)  The  ambition  of  the  surgeons  was  to  see 
themselves  incorporated  in  the  University,  that  of 
the  barbers  to  see  themselves  incorporated  among 
the  surgeons. 

(iv.)  Lastly,  between  1515  and  1533  the  confra- 
ternity of  Saint-Come  '  had  received  the  official 
designation  of  College,'  and  the  Faculty  had  oiFered 
no  protest. 

Such  was  the  situation  when  Ambroise  Par6 
arrived  in  Paris,  towards  1532,  and  entered  himself 
apprentice  to  a  barber.  There,  like  any  similar 
apprentice,  he  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of 
shaving,  hair-dressing,  and  poulticing.  What  time 
he  could  spare  from  these  was  probably  given  to 
the  hospitals,  then  as  now  the  best  field  of  study  for 
a  surgeon.  Admitted  maitre  barbiev-chirurgien  in  1536, 
he  opened  shop  forthwith  under  the  barber-surgeon's 
sign  of  the  three  basins.  But  his  activity  and  zest 
of  practical  knowledge  demanded  a  wider  and  more 
strenuous   scene,  and   he  went  to   the   wars  with 


170  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Francis  I.  Returning  to  Paris  in  1539,  a  hardy 
campaigner  with  stores  of  new  learning  from  the 
battle-field,  he  married  two  years  later,  and  in  1542 
he  was  off  to  the  camp  again.  His  first  book,  a 
monograph  on  the  treatment  of  wounds  received  in 
battle,  appeared  in  1545 ;  but  Pare's  career  is  alto- 
gether too  large,  too  picturesque,  and  too  important 
to  be  cramped  into  a  paragraph.  Suffice  it  for  the 
present  purpose  that  when,  in  1550  or  1551,  he  was 
appointed  surgeon-in-ordinary  to  Henri  II.,  being 
now  a  man  of  no  small  distinction,  the  College  of 
Surgeons  (an  institution  in  which,  M.  Franklin  ob- 
serves, '  les  hommes  habiles  etaient  rares ')  perceived 
that  Pare  must  be  secured  a  tout  prix.  But  a  for- 
midable difficulty  presented  itself  at  the  outset. 
Candidates  must  be  examined  in  Latin ;  at  the  least, 
the  thesis  must  be  composed  in  that  language,  and 
the  king's  surgeon-in-ordinary  had  not  a  tag  of 
Latin  in  his  very  able  head.  He  deplores  its 
absence  with  a  candid  and  characteristic  modesty 
in  the  dedication  of  one  of  his  books  : — '  N'a  pleu  a 
Dieu  faire  tant  de  grace  a  ma  jeunesse  qu'elle  aye 
este  en  grec  ou  latin  institute.'  ('It  pleased  not  God 
that  my  youth  should  be  forwarded  by  Greek  or 
Latin  learning.') 

By   some    discreet    process   of    dissimulation    '  a 
grave  infraction  of  the  rules '  was  made  possible, 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  171 

and  in  1554  Ambroise  Pare  received  his  cap  and  his 
degree. 

After  the  death  of  Henri  II.,  he  was  officially 
attached  to  the  persons  of  Francis  II.,  Charles  IX., 
and  Henri  III.  Charles  IX.  intervened  to  save  him 
from  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  (his  majesty's 
nurse  is  said  to  have  been  the  only  other  person  to 
whom  his  protection  was  accorded  on  that  occasion)  ; 
and  Henri  III.'s  regard  for  him  was  reflected  upon 
the  whole  body  of  surgeons.  Henri  renewed  the 
decree  of  1544,  by  which  Francis  I.  (the  first  of 
Pares  patrons)  had  created  a  Faculty  of  Surgery, 
with  privileges  not  inferior  to  those  enjoyed  by  the 
University.  The  Faculty  of  Medicine  had  offered 
no  opposition,  and  when  Henri  III.  went  a  step 
beyond  Francis  I.,  and  gave  permission  to  the 
surgeons  of  Saint-C6me  to  open  a  course  of  public 
lectures,  the  doctors  contented  themselves  with  a 
counter-move  in  the  interests  of  their  favourite 
pawns,  the  barbers.  They  relinquished  their  rights 
of  presiding  over  the  technical  examinations  of  the 
barbers,  and  bound  themselves  anew  to  further  the 
studies  of  that  fraternity  by  '  lending '  them  '  two 
good  and  notable  reading  doctors,'  who  should  read 
from  the  Latin  into  the  French  all  hard  meanings  in 
the  anatomists,  who  had  chosen  to  write  only  in  the 
tongue  of  clerks  and  scholars. 


172  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Between  the  surgeons  and  the  Faculty  it  was 
move  for  move ;  and  in  this  curious  struggle  the 
surgeons  had  sometimes  an  inspiration  of  genius. 
In  1579  they  seduced  the  Pope.  A  Bull  of  Pope 
Gregory  XIII.  took  the  surgeons  under  the  wing  of 
Rome,  which  had  conveniently  forgotten  its  'Ecclesia 
abhorret  a  sanguine.'  It  is  not  clear  at  this  day 
what  was  the  exact  value  of  the  Papal  championship 
in  a  matter  of  surgery,  but  the  Faculty  of  Medicine 
thought  so  much  of  it  that  the  doyen  and  his  elders 
summoned  to  their  aid  the  authority  of  the  University 
of  Paris.  The  University  protested  that  '  there  must 
be  some  trickery,  that  the  bull  could  scarcely  be 
genuine '  ('  qu'il  y  a  abus,  que  l'indult  ne  peut  etre 
authentique ').  The  surgeons  answered  the  challenge 
by  producing  a  certificate,  '  signed  by  three  bankers 
of  Paris.'  The  University  '  wrote  to  the  Pope,'  and 
the  Faculty  '  appealed  to  Parliament.'  The  Pope, 
it  seems,  did  not  reply  to  the  University ;  and 
Parliament,  having  a  less  easy  means  of  escape, 
was  '  much  embarrassed.'  On  consideration,  it  took 
the  prudent  course  of  shelving  the  whole  question 
(*  mit  l'affaire  de  cote  '),  which  seems  by-and-bye  to 
have  been  so  completely  forgotten  that,  at  the  close 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  have  the  surgeons 
presenting  themselves  as  of  old  to  take  the  oath  of 
fealty  and  obedience  to  the  Faculty.     The  end  of 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  173 

the  century  saw  the  doctors  sitting  firmly  in  the  seat 
of  power. 

Louis  XIII.  (whose  birth  has  been  reproached 
upon  his  father  Henri  IV.,  as  the  one  act  he  should 
blush  for)  dawned  upon  France  with  the  dawn  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  He  passed  beneath  his 
barber's  razor  for  the  first  time  twenty-three  years 
later  (1624),  and  had  the  artist  of  the  occasion  been 
at  all  worthy  of  his  calling  as  a  collegiate  of  Saint- 
Come  he  would  have  made  the  king  pay  his  scot. 
To  take  the  maiden  beard  of  a  King  of  France  is 
not  every  barber's  fortune, — and  the  uplifted  razor 
utters  its  own  exhortation.  But  the  chief  barber 
won  nothing  from  his  majesty.  It  chanced,  how- 
ever, that  Louis  XIII.'s  birthday  was  also  the  jour 
de  fete  of  those  mythical  but  canonised  professors, 
Saints  Come  and  Damien  ;  and  the  king  was  pleased 
to  •  extend  a  hand  to  their  shades  by  permitting 
the  corporation  of  surgeon-barbers  to  plant  a  fleur- 
de-lys  in  the  centre  of  their  shield. 

The  struggle  between  the  two  opposing  parties 
went  on  slowly  and  foolishly.  Sometimes  it  was 
foolishly  varied ;  the  Faculty  turned  upon  one  of 
its  own  children.  One  of  the  doctors  who  had  been 
4  lent '  to  the  barbers  gave  them,  on  his  own  re- 
sponsibility, a  course  of  lectures  '  on  respiration.' 
The  Faculty  was  of  opinion  that  respiration  '  was 


174  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

not  within  the  science  of  barbers,'  and,  as  usual, '  re- 
ferred the  case  to  Parliament.'  Parliament  confessed 
its  incompetence  in  the  matter,'  and  suggested  that 
the  Faculty  ■  should  take  an  early  opportunity ' 
of  deciding  '  quae  sint  chirurgica ' — in  what  precisely 
the  field  and  functions  of  surgery  consisted.  The 
Faculty  responded  off-hand,  that  surgery  was  '  a 
manual  art,'  limited  to  '  the  separation  of  parts,  the 
re-uniting  of  parts  divided,  and  amputation '  (*  la 
dierese,  la  synthase,  et  l'exfrese  '). 

The  barbers  themselves  took  no  stock  whatever 
in  these  quarrels.  They  kept  their  noses  to  the 
grindstone,  and  were  always  learning  something. 
When  the  doctors  read  anatomy  to  them  in  Latin, 
they  made  the  best  they  could  of  the  explanations 
in  French.  When  the  whole  course  was  in  the 
mother  tongue,  they  missed  not  a  word.  Step  by 
step  and  point  by  point,  in  a  word,  the  barber- 
surgeons  were  slowly  transforming  themselves  into 
surgeon-barbers.  The  surgeon-barbers  were  quite 
aware  of  this,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  winning 
over  a  clever  barber-surgeon  to  their  camp.  While 
the  Faculty  of  Medicine  was  priming  all  its  guns 
against  Harvey,  in  the  matter  of  the  circulation  of 
blood,  (fourteen  years'  expenditure  of  powder  with- 
out a  single  shot  to  the  credit  of  the  Faculty,)  the 
surgeons  were    devising    a   compromise   with    the 


THE  SURQEON-BARBERS  175 

barbers ;  and  at  length,  in  the  middle  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  their  compromise  resolved  itself  into 
a  complete  surrender.  They  petitioned  the  barbers, 
*  le  bonnet  a  la  main,'  to  be  received  among  them. 
The  barbers  were  willing,  and  Parliament — more 
and  more  mystified  by  each  successive  change  in 
the  phases  of  this  interminable  quarrel — ratified  the 
union. 

It  was  a  union  to  the  gain  of  both  parties.  The 
surgeons  of  St.-Come  had  a  college,  and  wore  the 
long  gown,  and  gave  degrees,  and  were  beginning 
to  be  persons  in  society.  But  their  ambitious  '  Lat- 
inisators '  had  no  great  skill  with  the  scalpel,  and 
were  daily  losing  renown  as  operators.  The  best 
operators  were  found  among  the  barber-surgeons. 
The  barber-surgeons,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no 
college ;  they  did  not  speak  Latin,  and  in  the  social 
scale  their  place  was  a  very  humble  one.  Their 
new  union  with  the  surgeons  associated  them  with 
gentlemen  who  talked  Latin,  and  elevated  them 
thereby  to  the  rank  of  savants, — so  far  as  the  title 
might  be  given  to  persons  who  '  worked  with  their 
hands.' 

No  sooner  had  Parliament  ratified  the  union — de- 
voutly hoping  that  here  at  last  was  an  end  to  the 
wranglings  of  three  centuries— than  the  Faculty 
turned  out  with  horse,  foot  and  artillery,  determined 


176  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

once  for  all  to  put  the*  fear  of  heaven  into  the  sur- 
geons. This  time,  in  fact,  the  aim  and  end  of  the 
Faculty  was  nothing  less  than  the  demolition  and 
annihilation  of  the  adversary.  It  was  a  five-years' 
war,  lasting  from  1655  to  1660.  The  Faculty  attack- 
ed every  right  and  privilege  which  had  either  been 
conferred  upon  or  had  been  invented  by  the  surgeons. 
There  was  no  boggling  as  to  the  object,  which  was 
utterly  to  destroy  the  independence  of  surgeons  and 
barbers  both.  '  We  cannot  prevent  there  being  sur- 
geons at  Saint-Come,'  said  Guy  Patin,  the  chief 
combatant  in  the  ranks  of  the  Faculty,  '  nor  can 
we  prevent  them  from  forming  a  league  with  the 
barbers.  What  we  want  is,  that  there  should  be,  as 
heretofore,  one  company  or  society  of  surgeon-bar- 
bers, dependent  on,  and  drawing  their  authority  from, 
our  Faculty,  tendering  the  oath  of  fidelity  every 
year  in  our  schools,  and  paying  the  customary 
fees.' 

In  reality,  and  under  every  consideration  of  jus- 
tice, the  position  adopted  by  the  Faculty  towards 
its  opponents  was  untenable  and  ridiculous.  For  the 
Faculty  was  not  a  surgical  body  ; '  it  had  absolutely 
no  experience  of  surgery  on  the  practical  side ; 
it  had  no  wish  to  acquire  suoh  experience ;  not 
one  individual  of  the  order  would  have  handled, 
upon  any  consideration  whatever,  the  knife  of  the 


THE  SURGEON -BARBERS  177 

demonstrator  in  the  dissecting-room  ;  and  it  heartily 
and  wholly  despised,  not  indeed  the  solid  benefits  of 
the  art,  but  each  and  all  of  its  exponents,  as  '  de  pau- 
vres  diables  indignes  de  cirer  les  b'ottes  d'un  mede- 
cin,'  because  their  profession  required  them  to  *  work 
with  their  hands.' 

But  the  unjust  cause  prevailed.  The  luckless 
Parliament  (servile  in  general,  it  must  be  confessed, 
in  the  interests  of  the  Faculty),  compelled  to  give 
judgment,  pronounced  roundly  for  the  plaintiffs.  It 
was  a  decision  which  stripped  the  surgeons  bare. 
They  were  placed  once  more  under  the  complete 
control  of  the  Faculty,  and  everything  was  taken 
from  them.  They  were  to  have  no  college,  to  con- 
fer no  degrees,  to  wear  neither  cap  nor  gown. 
'  Rien  ne  distinguait  plus  leur  communante,'  says  M. 
Franklin,  'des  plus  humbles  corporations  ouvrieres.' 

The  eighteenth  century  was  to  show  the  struggle 
under  a  different  aspect,  but  at  this  point  we  may 
pause  a  moment  to  glance  at  another  very  ancient 
cause  of  quarrel  between  the  surgeons  and  the 
Faculty  of  Medicine.  Mention  has  been  made 
of  the  permission  granted  by  the  Faculty  to  the 
barbers,  to  purchase  from  the  gallows  a  corpse  for 
dissection.  Such  monopoly  as  existed  in  these  com- 
modities was  in  the  hands  of,  and  very  jealously 
guarded  by,  the  medical  body ;  and,  as  far  as  it  lay 

N 


178  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

in  the  power  of  the  doctors,  the  surgeon-barbers 
were  '  kept  out  of  corpses.' 

During  a  long  period  it  was  held  a  profane  act  to 
open  or  carve  a  dead  body  for  any  purpose  of  science ; 
and  in  1300,  Boniface  VIII.  issued  a  bull  condemning 
1  all  anatomical  dissections  not  sanctioned  by  the 
Holy  See.'  Popular  prejudice  supported  the  Church 
in  this  matter,  and  an  Italian  surgeon,  Mundini  de 
Luzzi,  was  considered  a  very  bold  man  for  having 
ventured,  fifteen  years  after  the  edict  of  Boniface, 
to  dissect  two  corpses  in  public.  The  result  of 
Luzzi's  observations,  published  with  certain  curious 
engravings  in  1478,  remained,  with  the  writings  of 
Hippocrates  and  Galen,  the  sole  guide  of  the  anat- 
omist for  at  least  a  century  beyond  that  date.  Mun- 
dini himself,  it  is  said,  had  some  qualms  of  conscience 
over  his  task  ;  he  would  operate  only  on  the  corpses 
of  women,  and  did  not  dare  to  dissect  the  head,  '  for 
fear  of  committing  a  mortal  sin.' 

In  fourteenth  century  France  the  faculty  of 
Montpellier  dissected  '  one  corpse  a  year.'  The  legal 
authorities  of  the  town  had  instructions  from  the 
king  to  deliver  to  the  doctors  once  a  year  •  a  person 
condemned  to  death,  of  whatever  sex  or  religion.' 

In  Paris,  needless  to  say,  the  Faculty  of  Medicine 
controlled  the  very  scanty  supply  of  fruits  from  the 
gallows  and  the  block.     It  is   curious,  by  the  way, 


THE  S  UR  G EON-BARBERS  1 79 

that  during  so  many  ages  in  which  so  many  victims 
were  so  lightly  turned  over  to  the  public  execution- 
er, the  general  sentiment  should  have  revolted  so 
strongly  from  the  handling  of  these  victims  after 
death  by  persons  who  had  a  merely  scientific  and 
humanitarian  interest  in  the  task.  To  take  life  was 
a  small  matter  enough,  and  crowds  would  flock  to 
the  cruel  spectacle  of  breaking  on  the  wheel,  burn- 
ing or  even  flaying  alive  ;  but  to  unsling  a  murder- 
er's corpse  from  the  gibbet,  and  deliver  it  to  a  man 
of  science  for  the  instruction  of  students  in  a  class- 
room, was  regarded  as  something  worse  than  un- 
canny, it  was  a  deed  almost  unholy  and  accursed. 

The  Faculty  must  be  absolved  from  all  charge  or 
suspicion  of  abusing  its  privilege  in  this  matter. 
It  had  small  use  for  the  corpses,  which  not  a  doc- 
tor in  Paris  would  have  touched  with  the  point 
of  a  knife ;  and  it  strove  hard  to  keep  them  from 
the  persons  who  most  needed  them.  From  about 
the  sixteenth  century,  the  surgeons  attached  to  the 
Chatelet  gave  a  course  of  lectures  annually  to  the 
mid  wives  of  Paris,  which  included  '  une  anatomic 
de  femme.'  The  allowance  of  the  Faculty  to  the 
students  in  its  own  schools  was  two  bodies  in  the 
year,  which  were  supplied  by  the  '  lieutenant  crimi- 
nel,'  and  the  utmost  seems  to  have  been  made  of 
these  solemn  opportunities.     The  beadle  summoned 

n2 


180  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

all  the  masters  and  their  students,  and  if  the  Faculty 
chanced  to  be  on  passably  good  terms  with  the 
surgeons  and  barbers,  they  also  were  bidden  to  the 
ceremony.  In  any  case,  some  skilled  surgeon  or 
barber  was  necessary  for  the  practical  part  of  the 
demonstration,  since  no  doctor  would  compromise 
his  dignity  (or  discover  his  ineptitude)  by  touching 
the  body. 

It  is  clear,  however,  that  the  surgeon  who  meant 
to  keep  his  hand  in  was  not  to  be  fobbed  off  with  a 
paltry  provision  of  two  corpses  per  annum, — which, 
indeed,  he  very  seldom  got  a  stroke  at.  What 
followed  ?  The  headsman  of  Paris,  or  the  gentleman 
who  instructed  him,  knew  well  enough.  It  was 
mainly  the  affair  of  a  little  oiling  of  the  palm.  For 
a  price  agreed  upon,  the  executioner,  with  or  with- 
out the  connivance  of  the  greater  criminel,  would 
either  dispose  of  the  body  on  which  justice  had  been 
done,  or  would  arrange  that  it  should  be  stolen  from 
the  scaffold.  So,  on  the  day  of  an  execution  by 
hanging  or  beheading,  if  a  plot  of  this  kind  had 
been  contrived,  you  might  see  a  little  knot  of  students 
mingling  in  the  crowd  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  who, 
when  the  axe  had  fallen  or  the  hemp  had  done  its 
work,  would  storm  the  scaffold  and  bear  away  the 
spoil.  More  probably,  however,  the  act  would  be 
accomplished  after  dark.     M.  Franklin  describes '  the 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  181 

celebrated  Vesale '  creeping  around  the  gallows  of 
Montfaucon  in  the  night  and  disputing  with  the 
birds  of  prey  the  remains  of  the  malefactors  swing- 
ing in  chains.  Not  infrequently,  surgeons  and 
students  braved  the  penalties  of  sacrilege  by  rifling 
the  graves  in  the  cemeteries. 

Instigated  by  the  Faculty,  Parliament  passed  law 
after  law  to  prohibit  or  to  check  the  illicit  traffic  in 
corpses,  not  perceiving  or  indifferent  to  the  fact  that 
the  supply  accorded  te  Nthe  surgeons  and  students 
was  absurdly  smaller  ^tnan  the  study  of  their  art 
rendered  necessary.  Of  course  the  favour  of  a  king 
could  procure  at  any  time  for  his  chief  surgeon  or 
barber  a  present  of  this  sort  from  the  Chatelet  or  the 
Conciergerie  (where  they  had  usually  a  convenient 
corpse  or  two),  and  an  operator  of  Pares  eminence 
might  contrive  now  and  then  to  have  such  an  offer- 
ing delivered  at  his  door  ;  but  for  the  eager  student 
who  had  no  friend  at  court  there  was  little  choice 
other  than  a  surreptitious  bargain  with  the  hangman, 
or  a  still  more  surreptitious  visit  to  the  graveyard. 

But  the  tribulation  of  the  surgeons  was  gradually 
drawing  to  its  term.  The  '  terrible  decree'  of  1660 
had  by  no  means  proved  their  death-blow ;  M. 
Franklin  indeed  has  no  difficulty  in  showing  that  it 
was,  as  he  states,  '  un  premier  advantage '  gained 
over  their  arrogant  rival. 


182  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

'  The  fusion  of  the  surgeons  with  the  barbers 
being  complete  and  absolute,  the  Faculty  had  lost 
the  resource  of  setting  one  class  against  the  other. 
It  had  now  to  contend  with  a  body  stronger,  more 
numerous,  and  richer  than  before  ....  and  hence- 
forth it  was  with  the  chief  surgeon  of  the  king  that 
swords  must  be  crossed.  Again,  moreover,  that 
ancient  prejudice  which  had  depreciated  every 
description  of  manual  labour  was  beginning  to  lose 
ground,  thanks  mainly  to  the  growing  influence  of 
those  able  men  whom  the  corporation  of  barbers  had 
produced.  That  corporation  was  soon  to  enjoy  the 
countenance  and  support  of  Royalty  itself,  which 
had  remained  so  far  an  indifferent  spectator  of  the 
struggle.' 

Up  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  surgery  had  never 
achieved  at  Court  one  of  those  signal  successes 
which  command  admiration  and  impose  respect.  It 
was  reserved  for  '  le  Grand  Monarque,'  in  his  own 
august  person,  to  submit  to  a  great  and  important 
test  the  skill  of  the  despised  profession.  Louis  XIV. 
was,  beyond  question,  the  most  powerful  and  the 
most  splendid  sovereign  by  whom  the  destinies  of 
France  had  been  controlled.  Absolute  master  of  his 
people ;  a  fear  to  all  his  foes  ;  slavishly  courted  by 
men,   and   almost   as  slavishly  adored   by  women, 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  183 

'  worshipped  and  incensed  above  a  god,'  no  glory  of 
man  seemed  ever  to  have  equalled  his. 

If,  observed  Bossuet  on  one  occasion,  He  who 
reigned  on  high  felt  any  pleasure  in  subjecting  kings 
to  law,  what  better  occasion  could  present  itself  for 
an  exhibition  of  His  power  !  M.  Franklin  makes  the 
dry  rejoinder,  that  the  Almighty  seems  to  have 
yielded  to  the  temptation ;  for,  early  in  the  year 
1686,  le  roi  soleil  took  to  his  bed  with  a  most  dis- 
tressing malady. 

The  nature  of  the  disease,  together  with  the 
remedies  proposed  before  the  king's  chief  surgeon 
declared  decisively  in  favour  of  an  operation,  may 
be  passed  over  here.  The  surgeon,  Felix,  seems  to 
have  known  from  the  first  what  would  be  necessary, 
but  the  Court  was  aghast  at  the  notion  of  a  surgical 
operation  on  Louis  the  magnificent,  and  it  was  not 
resolved  upon  until  the  resources  of  quackery  had 
been  exhausted.  The  king  himself  appears  to  have 
been  under  very  little  deception  throughout,  and  in 
the  end  he  resigned  himself  with  exemplary  fortitude 
to  the  hands  of  his  surgeon. 

The  operation  which  was  performed — in  the  pres- 
ence of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  pere  La  Chaise,  the 
king's  confessor,  his  physician  in  chief,  and  '  quatre 
apothicaire8 ' — was  entirely  successful ;  and  it  may 


184  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

be  noted,  as  an  extreme  example  of  the  sycophantism 
which  surrounded  Louis,  that  the  malady  which  had 
been  destroyed  in  him  became  the  fashion  at  Court ! 
Everyone  boasted  that  he  had  it  (in  truth,  it  was  not 
a  matter  either  for  vaunting  or  for  blushing),  and 
those  who  were  really  afflicted  betook  themselves 
proudly  to  Felix,  and  called  for  '  the  Great  Operation, 
— the  one  you  performed  on  his  Majesty.' 

The  king  was  not  ungrateful  for  the  good  he  had 
received.  Felix  was  enriched  by  the  amount  of 
three  hundred  thousand  livres  and  an  estate,  and 
was  advanced  to  the  rank  of  a  nobleman.  It  is 
scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  the  whole  profession  to 
which  he  belonged  rose  in  his  wake.  Louis  created 
a  chair  of  surgery  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  (where 
schools  of  chemistry,  botany,  and  history  were  al- 
ready established),  and  interested  himself  in  the 
first  appointment.  In  a  nominal  sense  the  edict  of 
1660  remained  in  force,  but  with  the  establishment 
of  the  chair  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  the  surgeons 
recommenced  their  public  lectures  at  Saint-Come  ; 
the  royal  favour  had  set  the  ball  at  their  feet  again, 
and  the  Faculty  began  to  be  in  eclipse.  A  munifi- 
cent legacy  enabled  the  surgeons  to  build  a  substan- 
tial amphitheatre  adjoining  Saint-Come,  surmounted 
by  a  royal  crown,  and  over  the  door  of  which  this 
verse  was  read : — 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  185 

'Ad  caedes  hominum  prisca  amphitheatra  patetunt,  ut 
discant  longum  vivere  nostra  patent.' 

(The  amphitheatres  of  old  were  opened  to  take  men's  lives  ; 
ours  to  preserve  them.) 

New  statutes  came  into  existence  in  1699,  under 
one  clause  of  which  it  was  enacted  that  '  persons  en- 
gaged in  the  practice  of  surgery  pure  and  simple 
shall  be  regarded  as  following  a  liberal  art,  and  shall 
enjoy  all  those  privileges  which  the  liberal  arts  be- 
stow.' Here  indeed  was  a  progress  from  the  days 
when  the  barber-surgeon,  at  the  sign  of  the  three 
basins,  was  dubbed  no  better  than  a  tinker. 

The  humbler  practitioners  nevertheless  continued 
to  be  very  small  fry,  living  meanly,  scarcely  above 
the  rank  of  the  poorer  shopkeepers,  and  called  upon 
for  a  variety  of  duties  which  had  little  or  nothing 
in  common  with  surgery.  Their  apprentices  had  a 
dour  time  of  it  (except  when  they  could  slip  away 
on  a  racket  with  the  students),  meanly  fed  and 
miserably  lodged,  and  generally  expected  to  double 
the  roles  of  savant  and  shop-boy.  Up  at  cock-crow, 
the  lad  swept  and  opened  the  shop,  and  stood  in  wait 
on  the  door-step  to  blandish  the  early  labourer  who 
might  be  disposed  for  the  luxury  of  a  shave.  From 
eleven  or  twelve  until  two  or  three  in  the  afternoon, 
he  scoured  the  town  in  attendance  on  clients  whose 
beards  and  wigs  must  be  dressed  in  their  own  cham- 


186  AN  IDLER   IN  OLD  FRANCE 

bers,  or  wlio  needed  other  services.  Then  back  to 
the  shop,  where,  if  he  fell  asleep  over  a  book,  the 
little  bell  above  the  street  door  would  soon  interrupt 
his  slumbers.  If  his  master  were  called  up  at  night 
the  apprentice  was  probably  despatched  in  his  stead. 
Classes  in  surgery  were  sometimes  held  at  four  in 
the  morning,  for  the  benefit  of  apprentices  whose 
employers  grudged  them  every  working  hour  of  the 
day.  Still,  the  apprentices  had  youth  on  their  side, 
and,  like  the  students  of  the  University,  they  did  not 
pass  for  a  melancholy  tribe. 

The  early  years  of  the  eighteenth  century  saw  the 
surgeons  still  playing  up  to  win.  On  the  death  of 
Felix  in  1703,  the  office  of  chief  surgeon  was  given 
to  Marechal,  who  continued  to  hold  it  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XV.  A  gifted  man  and  resolute  for  his 
profession,  Marechal  induced  the  young  king  to 
create  five  new  professorships  at  Saint-Come,  with 
five  new  courses  of  public  lectures.  This  was  a 
bold  affront  to  the  enemy ;  and  the  Faculty,  whose 
wrath  had  been  too  long  contained,  at  last  exploded. 
The  new  Louis  had  a  good  deal  less  of  the  Jove  in 
him  than  the  old  one,  and  so  much  the  less  inviolate 
were  his  decrees.  The  Faculty  led  off  with  a  rather 
ludicrous  assault  upon  the  doors  of  Saint-Come,  march- 
ing in  full  robes  behind  the  doyen,  who  carried  a  skele- 
ton in   both  arms.     Admission  was  demanded  in  the 


THE  SURGEON-BARBERS  187 

great  name  of  the  Faculty  of  Medicine,  but  the  doc- 
tors were  received  with  such  a  thunder  of  laughter 
by  the  surgeons  and  students  at  every  window  of 
the  college  that  they  turned  back  in  rage  and  con- 
fusion. 

Next,  remembering  their  ancient  and  worthy 
friend,  the  Parliament,  they  lodged  a  tremendous  ap- 
peal with  their  worships.  But  in  this  quarter  they 
fared  no  better  ;  the  Faculty  that  had  been  invinci- 
ble was  nonsuited  on  every  count.  A  ruder  blow 
was  to  follow,  and  in  1731  the  Faculty  beheld  in 
impotence  the  elevation  of  the  surgeons,  those  '  con- 
temptible mechanics,'  to  the  dignity  of  an  Academy. 

Even  this  was  not  the  worst.  Twelve  years  later 
a  royal  decree  restored  to  the  community  of  surgeons 
every  right  and  privilege  of  which  the  Parliament's 
judgment  in  1660  had  deprived  them  ;  they  were 
joined  to  the  University  of  Paris  ;  declared  a  '  learn- 
ed body ;'  and  the  last  link  was  severed  in  the  chain 
which  had  bound  them  to  the  Faculty  of  Medicine. 
And  here,  in  a  word,  the  struggle  ends. 

Some  thirty  years  from  this  the  old  Faculty  died 
of  inanition — not  precisely  in  a  garret,  but  in  some 
forlorn  tenement  which  the  corporation  of  lawyers 
had  abandoned — and  the  new  Faculty  which  rose 
upon  its  ruins  was  sheltered  in  the  sumptuous  build- 
ing inscribed  :  '  Acade'mie  Royale  de  Chirurgie  ' ! 


188  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

During  the  Revolution,  both  societies  were  involved 
in  the  fanatical  and  stupid  edict  which  suppressed 
all  '  congregations  laiques ';  1794  saw  them  re-in- 
stated ;  and  they  were  incorporated  in  the  Imperial 
University  in  1808.  From  that  date,  Saints  C£me 
and  Damien,  the  patron  saints  of  the  surgeon,  and 
St.  Luke,  the  patron  saint  of  medicine,  have  dwelt 
together  as  saints  should  do. 


183 


THE  CHASE  :  FROM  CHARLEMAGNE  TO 
LOUIS  XIV. 

They  understood  the  chase  in  Gaul  before  the 
imperial  days  of  Charlemagne.  All  the  Merovingian 
kings  hunted  the  wolf,  the  boar  and  the  stag ; 
and  all  the  wide  forests  of  Gaul  were  their  hunt- 
ing-ground. Elsewhere  the  chase  was  unrestricted 
to  their  subjects,  but  the  sportsman  risked  his  neck 
whose  quarry  lured  him  upon  king's  land.  Already 
the  rules  of  the  regal  pastime  were  getting  formulat- 
ed, and  to  Childebert  II.  are  ascribed  by  some  the 
rude  beginnings  of  the  art  and  science  of  venery. 
Another  Nimrod  of  this  era  was  Dagobert  I.,  '  prob- 
ably,' says  M.  Jullien  in  La  Chasse,  '  the  greatest 
hunter  of  all  the  Merovingians,'  with  a  vast  stud 
of  horses,  and  kennels  filled  with  dogs  of  many 
breeds.  Of  the  stock  of  the  Merovingians,  too, 
was  that  great  killer  of  game  in  the  steep  Ardennes, 
canonised  long  since  as  the  patron  saint  of  sport  in 


190  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

France,  Hubert  himself.  Hubert  is  no  myth  of  a 
half-forgotten  age.  His  father,  Bertrand,  Duke  of 
Aquitaine  (or  of  GuienneJ,  a  descendant  of  Clotaire 
I.,  was  a  person  of  distinction ;  while  as  for  Hubert, 
the  Saint  Hubert  that  should  be,  he  seems  to  have 
been  easily  first  among  the  bloods  of  this  day, 
'  devoted  in  equal  measure,'  says  a  French  biographer, 
'  to  the  worship  of  Diana,  of  Venus,  and  of  Mars.' 
Warrior,  and  courtier,  and  a  sportsman  from  crown 
to  heels,  the  days  of  his  youth  foreshadowed  none 
of  the  austerities  which  distinguished  his  career  in 
the  Church.  We  have  no  record  of  any  '  bag '  of 
his  in  the  Ardennes,  teeming  at  that  date  with  game 
and  great  quarry ;  but  here  it  was  that  his  hunting- 
knife  and  spear  found  their  chief  employment,  and 
the  same  forest  of  the  Ardennes  was  the  theatre  of 
Hubert's  strange  conversion  to  the  faith.  The 
legend  is  in  harmony  with  the  scene,  and  as  credible 
as  other  legends  of  like  nature.  Riding  through 
the  forest  one  day,  with  his  people  and  his  hounds, 
Hubert  found  himself  confronted  in  a  solitary  place 
by  a  stag  which  bore  a  crucifix  enlaced  between  its 
horns,  and  a  voice  called  to  him  : 

1  Know  that,  unless  thou  comest  forthwith  to 
Christ,  thou  shalt  presently  fall  and  perish  in 
hell.' 

Moved  at  once  to  admiration  and  to  fear,  Hubert 


THE  CHASE  191 

leaped  from  his  horse,  and  having  done  homage  on 
his  face  to  the  cross,  declared  that  he  would  quit 
the  Avorld  for  ever  and  devote  himself  utterly  to  the 
faith.  And,  some  testimony  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding, it  appears  that  he  severed  himself 
from  the  Court,  and  sought  shelter  with  St.  Lambert, 
bishop  of  Maestricht  (a.d.  683),  whom  he  succeeded 
in  the  first  years  of  the  eighth  century.  Later, 
he  transferred  the  episcopal  see  to  Liege,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  died  at  Varen,  near  Brussels,  in 
the  year  730.  Such  is  the  legend  of  St.  Hubert, 
whose  name  French  sportsmen  have  invoked  for 
above  a  thousand  years. 

When  Charlemagne  had  come  to  the  throne — 
himself  a  royal  hunter,  if  ever  there  were  such — the 
chase  was  the  nation's  pastime.  '  It  would  be  hard 
to  find  in  any  part  of  the  world,'  says  the  historian 
Eginhard,  who  was  Charlemagne's  secretary,  'a 
people  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  Francs  in  this 
respect.'  The  royal  forests  were  rigidly  preserved, 
and  the  counts  of  the  empire  had  exclusive  hunting 
rights  within  their  own  domains;  but  with  these 
reservations,  almost  everyone  might  hunt  or  hawk 
at  pleasure.  Field  sports,  in  a  word,  had  not  yet 
passed  into  a  privilege  of  the  king  and  the  titled 
classes.  To  the  clergy,  indeed,  they  were  forbidden 
under  the  capitularies  of  Charlemagne,  but  to  every 


192  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

abbot  and  monk  who  could  get  across  a  horse  that 
prohibition  remained  a  dead  letter.  Exceptions 
were  made  by  the  emperor  in  favour  of  the  abbeys 
of  St.  Denis,  near  Paris,  and  St.  Bertin  de  St.  Omer, 
for  the  curious  reason  that  the  monks  required 
certain  skins  for  •  gloves,  girdles  and  book-bindings.' 

Charlemagne,  who  dazzled  in  everything  he  did, 
conducted  his  hunts  on  a  scale  of  magnificence. 
The  pomp  of  the  Caesars  was  in  his  equipage,  and 
his  train  included  lions  and  leopards.  One  of  the 
finest  horsemen  of  his  age,  he  was  said  to  '  ride 
anything  and  anywhere,'  and  his  fleet  German 
hounds  were  not  often  lost  sight  of.  All  his  recrea- 
tion was  taken  in  the  saddle,  and  he  liked  his 
empress  and  princesses  to  ride  with  him  in  costumes 
which  excited  the  wonder  of  the  people.  Four 
chief  officers  had  the  charge  of  his  stables  and 
kennels,  a  chief  falconer  superintended  the  immense 
aviary  which  sheltered  the  birds  of  prey,  and  the 
whole  establishment  of  the  hunt  obeyed  the  orders 
of  the  seneschal  and  constable  of  the  court. 

Although  the  fox  was  hunted,  and  in  a  style  not 
unlike  the  modern  English,  this  was  almost  the  only 
form  of  the  chase  which  resembled  our  own.  The 
larger  and  fiercer  creatures,  bear,  wolf  and  boar, 
were  the  favourite  quarry  ;  and  there  were  various 
ways  of  taking  them,     It  was  considered  fair  sport, 


THE  CHASE  193 

for  instance,  to  snare  or  dig  pits  for  big  game  of  all 
kinds,  and  to  spear  or  kill  with  darts  from  a  safe 
eminence  the  boar  which  had  been  driven  into  an 
impasse;  but  the  chase  with  hounds  was  always 
the  most  in  vogue,  and  few  sportsmen  shunned  the 
moment  of  danger,  when  the  short  sword  or  hunt- 
ing-knife was  called  for.  If  hunting  were  the 
2)rincipal  pastime  of  old  France,  it  was  also  a  mode 
of  training  for  war  ;  and  this  was  one  reason  why, 
at  a  later  age,  it  was  strictly  denied  to  the  non- 
military  classes. 

Of  the  third  or  Capetian  race  the  first  hunter  of 
renown  was  the  able  and  vigorous  Philippe-Auguste, 
who,  not  content  with  the  huge  forests  of  his  prede- 
cessors, set  the  fashion  of  hunting-parks,  new  enclo- 
sures for  the  breeding  and  preservation  of  game, 
which  none  but  the  king  might  penetrate.  He  it 
was  who  surrounded  with  walls  the  noble  wood  of 
Vincennes,  after  he  had  well  stocked  it  with  deer  and 
roebuck.  By-and-bye  the  king's  example  began  to 
be  imitated  by  the  more  powerful  of  the  feudal  aris- 
tocracy, so  that,  not  the  woods  and  forests  only,  but 
great  stretches  of  rich  land  which  the  husbandman 
should  have  tilled  were  seized  upon  and  made  fast- 
nesses for  sport.  Hunting  and  war :  these  (if  we  ex- 
cept his  rather  violent  performances  in  love)  were 
the  sole  concerns  of  the  mediaeval  noble  ;  and  in  the 

0 


194  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

intervals  of  fighting,  hunting  was  a  kind  of  madness 
of  the  age.  All  occupation  which  had  for  its  object 
either  the  immediate  support  of  life,  or  the  mainten- 
ance of  trade  and  commerce,  was  despised,  and  a 
fierce  and  almost  totally  unlettered  aristocracy  killed 
its  abundant  leisure  by  killing  prodigious  quantities 
of  game.  It  was  the  chase  which,  as  much  perhaps 
as  any  other  institution,  kept  the  great  classes  and 
the  lesser  classes  apart,  and  lifted  the  former  to  such  a 
height  above  the  latter  ;  while  the  enforced  idleness — 
as  regarded  cultivation — of  ever  increasing  tracts  of 
country,  came  in  time  to  be  a  terrible  grievance  of 
the  nation.  The  garennes  or  warrens  of  the  puissant 
and  ruthless  nobles  spared  neither  arable  land  nor 
water-course ;  they  had  warrens  for  deer,  warrens 
for  hares,  and  warrens  for  water-fowl ;  as  early  as 
the  twelfth  century  France  was  being  overrun  by 
them,  and  every  new  garenne  that  was  enclosed  made 
life  harder,  by  making  food  scarcer,  for  the  poor. 
The  trouvires,  those  wandering  voices  of  the  middle 
ages,  ever  echoing  the  plaints  of  the  people,  luckless 
thralls  of  duke,  count  or  baron,  have  a  great  deal  to 
say  concerning  those  rights  of  the  chase,  which  were 
so  literally  the  wrongs  of  all  to  whom  the  chase  was 
denied. 

The  author  of  the  '  Roman  du  Renard,'  painting 
the  existence  of  the  owner  of  a  feudal  manor,  gives 


THE  CHASE  195 

hunting  the  foremost  place  among  his  occupations. 
At  early  morn  he  rouses  an  antlered  stag  in  his  for- 
est lair,  and  presently  an  arrow  brings  the  victim  to 
his  knees,  when  the  hounds  rush  in  to  complete  the 
kill.  A  tough  old  boar  is  next  put  up,  who  rips  four 
dogs  before  the  huntsman  can  get  in  to  spear  him ; 
and  the  chase  fares  on  again. 

No  didactic  treatise  on  the  subject  appeared  in 
France  earlier  than  the  reign  of  St.  Louis.  The 
firstjwas  the  anonymous  '  La  Chasse  dou  Cerf,'  a  work 
of  no  small  erudition,  and  one  which  the  sportsman 
of  a  scholarly  turn  would  read  with  pleasure  at  this 
day.  From  this  it  is  learned  that  owners  of  large 
packs  hunted  the  wild  boar  most  commonly  in  win- 
ter, the  hare  during  Lent  (and  not,  one  may  presume, 
on  a  fasting  stomach),  when  the  weather  was  dry 
and  fresh,  to  keep  the  dogs  in  training  for  the  swifter 
sport  of  following  the  stag  in  the  latter  days  of 
spring. 

Under  St.  Louis  and  under  Philippe  IV.  (le  Bel), 
although  the  royal  forests  and  the  seigneurial  war- 
rens were  as  strictly  preserved  as  ever,  and -the 
poacher  was  rudely  dealt  with,  the  laws  of  the  chase 
pressed  less  heavily  upon  the  untitled  classes ;  and 
under  Charles  IV.  (1322-28)  every  subject  of  the 
king  had  liberty  to  hunt  on  open  ground.  The 
nobles  resisted    and   spread  their   warrens    widerr 

02 


196  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

until  at  last  Parliament  took  the  popular  cause  in 
hand.  It  was  time  ;  for  the  nobles  threatened  to  en- 
mesh all  France  within  their  hunting-nets.  It  was  not 
to  be  expected  that  Parliament  would  be  over-bold 
in  the  matter,  but  something  was  gained  for  '  natural 
rights '  by  the  decree  that  warrens  should  be  sup- 
pressed in  cases  where  the  owners  could  not  make 
good  a  claim  of  immemorial  usage  '  per  se  et  suos 
predecessores.'  In  1355,  Jean  II.  (le  Bon)  ordered 
that  no  warren  should  continue  to  be  held  which 
had  been  acquired  in  his  own  or  his  father's  reign, 
and  under  the  two-fold  ban  of  Parliament  and  the 
Crown  these  illegal  preserves  began  slowly  to  dis- 
appear, though  the  struggle  with  the  nobles  was 
wearisome  and  long. 

For  the  chase  in  every  form  was  still  the  passion 
of  the  age.  Jean  II.  was  devoted  to  it,  and  so  great 
was  his  establishment  that  every  stag  his  hounds 
accounted  for  cost  the  monarch  a  goodly  sum.  The 
wealthy  seigneurs  vied  with  one  another  in  the  ex- 
tent and  quality  of  their  equipages,  and  the  less 
wealthy  made  an  equal  display  by  joining  their 
packs  together.  The  ladies,  the  '  hautes  et  puissantes 
dames,'  were  as  keen  as  any  for  '  la  chasse ;'  the 
hardier  among  them,  'on  palfreys  richly  capari- 
soned,' says  Jullien,  followed  the  wild-boar  or  the 
stag,  but  most  of  the  sex  gave   preference  to   the 


THE  CHASE  197 

milder  sport  of  hawking.  Europe  was  ransacked  for 
sporting  dogs,  and  horses  were  fetched  out  of  the 
East ;  and  the  present  of  a  fine  steed  or  a  hound  or 
two  of  noted  breed  was  exceedingly  esteemed.  The 
clergy,  careless  of  correction,  hunted  with  the  rest 
of  the  world,  and  the  rich  abbot  kennelled  his  pack 
within  the  monastery  wall.  Gace  de  la  Bigue,  chap- 
lain to  Jean  II.,  and  the  author  of  a  volume  of  sport- 
ing verse,  avowed  himself  '  un  chasseur  fort  ardent.' 
Charles  VI.  sends  Bajazet  a  present  of  goshawks  and 
falcons,  with  gloves  sewn  with  pearls  for  the  birds 
to  perch  on ;  and  at  about  the  same  time  the  Due 
de  Bourgogne  ransoms  the^  famous  Gomte  de  Nevers 
from  the  same  emperor  by  a  gift  of  twelve  white 
falcons. 

Among  many  sportsmen  of  greater  or  less  renown 
in  the  fourteenth  century  the  name  of  Gaston  de 
Foix  flashes  from  the  page  of  history  with  a  lustre 
peculiarly  its  own.  Gaston  Phoebus,  Count  of  Foix 
and  of  Bearn,  '  amiable,  gallant,  handsome,  rich, 
well-lettered,  and  intrepid,'  played  a  large  part  in 
the  politics  of  his  age.  Charles  VI.  appointed  him 
governor  of  Languedoc  ;  his  valour  preserved  him 
always  independent,  and  he  is  described  as  having 
held  in  check  the  Kings  of  France,  Spain,  England 
and  Aragon.  He  said  of  himself  that  if  he  were 
not  the  first    cavalier  of   his    age,  and    the    most 


198  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

successful  lover,  he  had  at  least  no  rival  en  matiere 
de  chasse.  According  to  Jullien,  his  kennels  never 
contained  fewer  than  sixteen  hundred  dogs,  '  care- 
fully selected  and  perfectly  trained ;'  and  it  is  recorded 
that  on  the  day  of  his  death,  at  sixty  years  of  age, 
he  slew  a  bear  in  the  woods  of  Sauve-Terre.  He 
left  an  unfinished  work  on  his  beloved  pastime, 
entitled  '  Les  Deduits  *  de  la  Chasse  aux  Bestes  Sau- 
vaiges,'  which  contains  the  naive  assertion  that  since 
the  true  sportsman  is  never  idle,  he  has  not  time  for 
evil  thoughts  or  evil  actions,  and  must  therefore  at 
his  death  go  straight  from  earth  to  Paradise. 

Great  also  among  the  great  hunters  of  the  middle 
ages  was  that  redoubtable  sovereign,  Louis  XL, 
who  had  'legions  of  dogs,  falcons,  huntsmen  and 
falconers.'  Considerable  as  were  the  sums  which 
many  of  his  predecessors  on  the  throne  had  lavished 
upon  sport,  the  expenditure  of  Louis  (a  mean  man 
in  ordinary)  was  magnificent.  One  knows  how  little 
this  most  astute  of  monarchs  neglected  affairs  of 
state,  but  apart  from  politics  he  cared  for  nothing 
but  the  chase,  and  he  wanted  all  France  for  his 
hunting-ground.  One  of  the  earliest  acts  of  his 
reign  was  to  forbid  the  chase  to  every  man, 
woman  and  child  in  his  kingdom  ;  there  was  not 
game  enough  in  the  rich  extent  of  France  to  serve 
*  '  Pleasures.' 


THE  CHASE  199 

the  king's  own  pleasure.  Nets  and  all  other  imple- 
ments of  hunting  were  ordered  to  be  seized  and 
publicly  burned,  and  the  king  himself  looked  on  at 
the  burning  of  the  whole  hunting-tackle  of  the  sire 
de  Montmorency,  whose  guest  he  was  at  the  time. 
He  bade  the  hangman  slit  the  ears  of  a  gentleman 
of  humble  means,  whose  offence  had  been  the  snar- 
ing of  a  hare  on  his  own  ground.  Not  without 
reason  might  bishop  Claude  of  Seissel  say  in  Louis's 
life-time  that  it  was  safer  to  kill  a  man  than  a  deer. 

Boar  and  wolf  delighted  him,  but  he  loved  above 
everything  to  follow  the  deer,  and  this  was  the 
sport  he  excelled  in.  He  would  ride  a  grand  horse, 
says  Commines,  cost  what  it  might ;  dogs  were 
sought  out  for  him  everywhere,  and  '  he  would  pay 
well  for  them.'  Out  early,  and  caring  nothing  for 
any  stress  of  weather,  the  king's  whole  day  was 
often  spent  in  the  saddle ;  he  would  return  at  night 
tired  out,  and  generally,  observes  Commines,  '  in  a 
very  bad  temper  with  somebody.' 

An  insatiable  hunter  to  the  end,  the  terrible  Louis 
had  his  bedroom  converted  into  a  kind  of  cock-pit 
during  the  malady  that  sent  him  to  the  grave. 
Unable  to  mount  into  the  saddle,  unable  even  to 
walk,  he  would  still  have  the  show  or  shadow  of  a 
hunt  within  the  four  walls  of  his  bed-room.  Com- 
missaries were  sent  to  Rouen  and  other  villages, 


200  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

with  instructions  to  assemble  all  the  dogs  in  the 
market-place,  and  to  choose  from  them  the  best 
ratters.  These  were  despatched  to  the  chateau  of 
Plessis-les-Tours,  and  loosed  upon  the  rats  and  mice 
in  the  chamber  of  the  dying  king,  who  was  propped 
upon  pillows  to  watch  the  sport.  It  was  one  of  his 
last  injunctions  that  he  should  be  represented  on  his 
tomb,  not  old,  but  in  the  prime  of  life,  dressed  in  his 
hunter's  habit,  with  his  horn  slung  across  him,  and 
his  dog  upon  his  knees. 

In  the  succeeding  reign,  that  of  Charles  VIII.,  the 
nobles  had  their  droits  de  chasse  restored  to  them. 
His  majesty  shone  as  a  falconer,  and  for  his  choicest 
birds  of  prey — gerfalcons  from  the  north  of  Germany, 
falcons  from  Tunis,  goshawks  from  Armenia,  Persia, 
Greece  or  Africa — he  paid  on  occasions  eight  hundred 
crowns  apiece,  an  enormous  sum  considering  the 
rarity  of  specie.  Charles  was  moreover  an  amateur 
of  the  literature  of  falconry,  and  charged  his  reader, 
Guillaume  Tardif,  to  compare  everything  that  had 
been  written  on  the  subject,  and  write  a  new  treatise. 
Tardif 's  own  work  must  have  been  a  labour  of  love, 
for  it  was  done  with  extraordinary  care  and  fulness ; 
a  treasure  of  knowledge  on  the  whole  art  of  falconry, 
which  every  lover  of  that  art  consulted  during 
centuries.  He  omits  no  detail  as  to  the  choosing  of 
the  best  varieties  of  birds,  their  breeding,  rearing, 


THE  CHASE  201 

and  training,  and  the  means  of  keeping  them  in 
condition.  A  reader  of  the  work  at  this  day  would 
almost  be  tempted  to  try  his  skill  at  the  forgotten 
pastime. 

To  fly  your  bird  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  flying  it 
was  esteemed  a  more  excellent  sport  than  hawking 
with  a  view  to  furnishing  the  table.  The  goshawk, 
a  bird  not  rare  in  old  France,  easily  tamed,  and 
easily  managed,  was  the  favourite  with  those  who 
went  a-hawking  to  keep  the  larder  in  small  game. 
It  took  but  a  narrow  flight,  and  was  a  good  killer 
of  pheasant,  partridge,  hare  and  rabbit.  But  the 
goshawk  was  rather  despised  by  the  ardent  falconer 
of  the  middle  ages.  Let  him  fly  the  eagle,  the 
falcon,  or  the  lanner-hawk ;  more  difficult  to  obtain, 
and  far  more  difficult  to  domesticate  and  to  train ; 
creatures  loving  the  wide  and  open  plain ;  and  need- 
ing for  their  fit  maintenance  and  management  in  the 
aviary  a  large  and  experienced  personnel,  and  men 
on  horse-back  to  follow  their  splendid  courses  in  the 
air.  Old  French  writers  on  falconry  divided  the 
sport  into  two  chief  branches,  the  haute  volerie  and 
the  lxis.se  volerie.  The  first  was  the  swoop  of  the 
falcon  or  gerfalcon  on  the  crane,  heron,  or  kite ;  the 
second  included  the  taking  of  pheasants,  partridges, 
quails,  larks,  hares  and  rabbits,  by  the  falcon,  gos- 
hawk or  sparrow-hawk. 


202  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

With  rarely  an  exception,  king  after  king  upon 
the  throne  of  France  continued  to  lead  the  way  in 
sport.  To  that  just  monarch,  Louis  XII.,  the 
1  Father  of  his  People  '  (who  was  not  ashamed  to  say, 
'  I  would  rather  my  subjects  laughed  at  my  economics 
than  wept  over  my  extravagances'),  succeeded  the 
prodigal  Francis  I.,  whose  gaudy  Court  foregathered 
often  for  the  chase.  Tents  and  tent-bearers  went 
with  the  gallant  company  to  the  field,  and  a 
Gargantuan  feast  was  spread  in  the  intervals  of 
hunting.  When  Francis  hunted  and  when  Francis 
dined,  the  dames  of  his  court  were  at  his  elbow  (we 
have  met  them  in  the  too-confiding  pages  of  Bran- 
t6me)  :  what  revels  passed  in  the  glades  of  Dampierre, 
of  Limours,  of  Rochefort,  of  Chantilly,  of  Jarnac, 
of  Chinon,  and  of  Compiegne !  The  hunting  equi- 
page of  Francis  was  gorgeous  beyond  doubt,  but  was 
it  not  also  just  a  little  circus-like  ?  We  read,  at  all 
events,  of  '  fifty  chariots,  with  six  horses  to  each 
chariot,'  which  served  merely  for  the  conveyance  of 
the  tents  and  tent-poles ;  and  there  was  a  Captain 
of  the  Tents,  '  a  gentleman  of  Normandy,'  who  had 
under  him  '  six  valets  in  charge  of  bloodhounds, 
twelve  mounted  huntsmen,  and  his  lieutenant.' 
During  the  reign  of  Francis  the  office  of  Grand 
Falconer  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  highest  in 
France,  and  this  and  every  other  chief  appointment 


THE  CHASE  203 

in  connection  with  the  chase  was  invariably  bestowed 
upon  a  nobleman.  The  cost  of  the  aviary  alone  in 
this  reign  was  '  thirty-six  thousand  livres '  a  year, 
'  without  the  salary  of  the  Grand  Falconer.'  It  was 
not  for  nothing  that  Francis  would  be  styled  the 
•  Pere  des  Veneurs.'  A  consummate  huntsman  him- 
self, his  passion  for  the  sport  increased  with  age, 
and  Jullien  describes  the  last  months  of  his  life  as 
'  une  succession  de  chasses  non  interrompues.'  The 
same  authority  states  that  Henry  VIII.  sent  his 
brother  of  France  in  1525  a  present  of  'twenty 
hackneys,  and  a  pack  of  a  hundred  dogs,  including 
several  of  immense  size  and  the  purest  breed.' 

Since  everyone  talked  sport  at  the  court  of 
Francis,  his  son,  the  young  due  d'Orleans,  who  was 
to  succeed  him  on  the  throne,  could  hardly  escape 
the  mode.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Henri  II.  became, 
under  the  tuition  of  that  brilliant  amazon,  Diane  de 
Poitiers,  one  of  the  finest  chasseurs  of  his  day. 
Who  better  than  Diane  could  have  taught  the 
budding  king  every  secret  of  the  royal  pastime? 
Beautiful,  and  bright,  and  infinitely  bewitching, 
and  not  exactly  bashful,  she  was  ever  at  his  side  ; 
and  while  Montmorency  and  the  Guises  played 
tricks  with  the  State,  Henri  and  Diane  were  beating 
up  the  game  in  every  royal  forest.  Widow  as  she 
was,  and  nearly  twenty  years  the  senior  of  her  royal 


204  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

lover  (Henri  II.  was  born  in  1518  and  Diane  de 
Poitiers  towards  the  close  of  1499)  it  is  certain  that 
she  kept  his  heart  to  the  last.  She  had  the  secrets 
of  beauty  and  of  health  ;  rose  at  five  in  the  morning, 
and  bathed  in  cold  water  (an  uncommon  exercise 
at  that  epoch),  was  in  the  saddle  betimes,  and 
rested  among  her  books  when  she  returned  from 
hunting.  In  the  afternoon  or  early  evening  she 
was  ready  to  tire  another  horse.  To  her  beautiful 
Chateau  d'Anet,  filled  with  statues  and  trophies  of 
the  chase,  the  king  came  often ;  and  seldom  did  he 
go  away  empty  of  game,  for  the  chateau  was  set 
amid  very  choice  preserves,  and  you  may  be 
sure  that  Diane  knew  how  to  keep  them  furnished. 

Francis  II.,  Marie  Stuart's  husband,  a  weakling, 
who  came  to  the  throne  at  sixteen  and  was  in  his 
grave  at  eighteen,  had  rather  at  any  time  stay  at 
home  than  go  a-hawking  or  a-hunting ;  but  when 
Catherine  de  Medicis  was  in  power,  during  the 
minority  of  Charles  IX.,  the  horn  was  heard  about 
the  woods  again,  for  there  was  no  make-believe  in 
the  Queen-mother's  ardour  for  the  chase.  Had  she 
not  lived,  as  the  wife  of  the  Due  d'Orleans,  at  the 
Court  of  Francis  I.  ?  Catherine  in  the  saddle  was 
not  less  fair  to  look  upon  than  her  bold  rival  Diane 
de  Poitiers,  and  report  of  a  gallant  kind  has  credited 
her  with   a  new  fashion   of  sitting  her  horse,  the 


THE  CHASE  205 

better  to  display  one  of  the  best-shaped  legs  in 
France.  When  her  husband  mounted  the  throne  as 
Henri  II.,  and  was  in  Diane's  leash,  Catherine 
still  went  with  him  to  the  hunt ;  scarcely  touched 
by  jealousy,  she  affected  to  believe  that  the  liaison 
had  no  deeper  significance  than  a  community  of 
interest  in  sport. 

With  the  power  in  her  own  hands  on  the 
premature  death  of  Francis  II.,  Catherine's  zest  of 
political  intrigue  took  her  but  little  from  the 
pleasures  of  the  field.  All  the  Medicis  loved  a 
touch  of  purple  in  their  doings,  and  Catherine's 
ordering  of  the  chase  gave  a  new  eclat  to  the 
court ;  her  '  Florentine  fetes '  and  4  Venetian  soirees,' 
if  imitated  from  the  huge  hunting-banquets  of  the 
'  Pere  des  Veneurs,'  were  far  more  elegant  diver- 
sions. An  amazon  in  the  saddle,  she  was  also  a 
first-rate  markswoman ;  and  the  cross-bow  she  was 
accustomed  to  carry  on  her  walks  was  a  weapon  of 
precision  in  her  hands. 

No  sportsman  as  yet  carried  firearms,  which  were 
heard  for  the  first  time  on  the  covert-side  while 
Charles  IX.  was  king,  It  is  not  recorded  of  Charles 
that  he  practised  among  the  bucks  and  pheasants 
for  his  shooting  of  Huguenots  from  the  balcony  of 
the  Louvre  on  Bartholomew's  Day,  but  he  was  a 
finished  sportsman  in  all  traditional  and  approved 


206  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

respects.  Masson  describes  Kim  as  '  vrai  prince  de 
la  chasse.'  Hunting,  indeed,  had  been  the  sole  pro- 
fession of  a  boyhood  and  youth  which  the  Queen- 
mother,  Catherine,  had  jealously  excluded,  not  only 
from  participation  in  but  from  knowledge  of  the 
affairs  of  France  ;  and  from  the  day  of  his  accession 
the  king  never  wearied  of  the  pastime  which  had  ab- 
sorbed the  prince.  Even  in  the  field,  however,  in- 
stances were  not  wanting  of  that  crooked  and  cruel 
spirit  which  the  callous  mother  fostered  in  her  son, 
till  she  had  fitted  him  to  be  her  instrument  and 
scapegoat  in  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew. 
When  game  was  to  seek  (a  rare  occurrence,  happily), 
he  would  set  his  dogs  to  worry  horses,  sheep  and 
cattle  ;  he  would  even,  with  his  own  weapon,  strike 
off  the  heads  of  pigs  and  asses.  In  such  a  fit  of  im- 
becile passion,  he  turned  his  spear  one  day  against  a 
mule  belonging  to  one  of  his  favourite  companions,  M. 
de  Saussac.  •  Sire,'  said  the  nobleman,  '  what  cause 
of  quarrel  can  have  arisen  between  my  mule  and 
you?'  A  dark,  mysterious,  morbid  spirit,  not  with- 
out temptings  to  goodness,  but  warped  and  defeat- 
ed utterly  by  the  dreadful  memory  of  Bartholomew, 
Charles  IX.  died,  '  epuise  par  des  fatigues  inces- 
santes,'  scarcely  twenty-four  years  of  age.  A  past 
master  of  venery,  it  was  his  last  ambition  to  trans- 
mit to  posterity  the  fruit  of  his  experiences  with 


THE  CHASE  207 

hawk  and  hound,  but  the  monograph,  •  La  Chasse 
Royale,'  which  he  began  to  dictate  to  M.  de  Villeroy, 
ended  abruptly  with  the  twenty-seventh  chapter.  A 
crowd  of  other  treatises  on  sport  appeared  in  this 
reign,  among  which  the  '  V6nerie '  of  du  Fouilloux 
has  lived  in  approbation. 

The  energetic  pleasures  of  the  chase  were  not  for 
Henri  III.,  who  liked  better  to  dress  himself  in 
woman's  clothes,  and  with  whom  the  line  of  the  Va- 
lois  perished  in  just  contempt ;  but  it  was  a  fair  day 
for  sport  when  the  sturdy  and  jocund  Bearnais, 
Henri  IV.,  first  and  finest  of  the  Bourbons,  took  in 
the  teeth  of  the  Ligue  the  throne  he  had  inherited 
from  St.  Louis.  King  of  Navarre  before  he  was  king  of 
France,  he  had  sucked  in  the  air  of  mountains  from 
childhood ;  his  father,  Antoine  de  Bourbon,  due  de 
Vendome,  had  reared  him  like  any  tough  little  '  enfant 
du  pays ;'  and  to  such  a  bringing-up  he  owed  that 
frame  and  temperament  *  si  male,  si  vigoureux,'  and 
that  determined  gaiety  of  heart  which  was  never  in 
eclipse.  To  an  ebullient  Navarre,  all  sinew  and 
quicksilver,  and  never  in  repose  but  when  he  was  in 
action,  the  toils  and  hazards  of  hunting  were  a  ne- 
cessity of  life.  No  sooner  had  he  reduced  Paris,  and 
become  the  master  of  his  capital,  than  he  took  horse 
for  a  four  days'  hunt  at  Melun  ;  and  later,  when  the 
treaty  of  Vervins  had  assured  him  the  kingdom   of 


208  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

France,  he  gave  his  council  a  fortnight's  holiday  and 
paid  a  round  of  hunting  visits  in  the  environs  of 
Paris.  He  would  follow  with  avidity  any  kind  of 
quarry  (he  always  said  those  partridges  were  sweet- 
est which  his  own  falcon  had  taken),  but  give  him 
for  choice  the  hunt  which  had  a  spice  of  danger  in 
it ;  bear,  wolf,  or  boar.  Saint-Germain,  Monceaux, 
Folembray,  Chantilly  and  Villers-Cotterets  saw  the 
king  often  at  one  season  or  another,  but  Fontaine- 
bleau,  where  every  glade  and  thicket  was  alive  with 
game,  was  his  best-loved  residence.  This  splendid 
habitation  of  Francis  I.  and  Henri  II.,  the  prodigal 
Bearnais  embellished  yet  more  extravagantly  in  the 
interests  of  his  hunt.  The  great  buildings  enclosing 
the  court  of  the  White  Horse  contained  a  kennel  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  toises  in  extent — •  almost  a 
palace,'  says  Jullien — and  his  packs  had  the  services 
of  '  one  hundred  and  sixty  valets  de  chiens.'  The 
aviary  housed  '  thousands  of  birds  of  prey.'  The 
best  horses  France  could  breed  being  too  slow  for 
the  impetuous  Henri,  he  sent  to  England  for  fleeter 
ones.  '  In  accordance  with  his  Majesty's  instruc- 
tions,' writes  Jullien,  '  Quinterot,  a  famous  jockey  of 
that  time,  went  to  England  frequently,  to  purchase 
there  for  the  service  of  the  French  Court  some  very 
expensive  horses.' 
Small  wonder  that  we  find  minister  Sully  com- 


THE  CHASE  209 

plaining  of  the  rate  at  which  the  money  went.  What 
else  could  a  minister  do,  careful  of  the  deniers  of  the 
State,  when  he  found  the  king  was  lavishing  every 
year  on  'building,  gaming,  women,  and  hunting-dogs, 
a  sum  large  enough  to  maintain  '  fifteen  thousand 
foot-soldiers.'  '  I  could  not  keep  silent  on  the 
subject,'  he  adds,  '  at  the  risk  of  incurring  his 
Majesty's  anger.'  But  Henri,  though  sometimes 
pinched  for  a  dinner  at  home,  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  stay  his  hand  when  the  kennels  were   in 

question. 

This  monstrous  outlay  was  not,  however,  altoge- 
ther for  display.  Henri  of  Navarre  wanted  the  best 
and  costliest  equipage  that  a  sportsman  might  have, — 
but  it  was  that  he  might  enjoy  thereby,  and  in  the 
fullest  possible  degree,  all  that  the  chase  was  capa- 
ble of  yielding.  If  you  must  hunt  three  times  a  day, 
as  Henri  IV.  not  rarely  did,  you  must  have  the  best 
of  horses  and  the  best  of  hounds,  and  plenty  of 
both. 

The  king  was  not  above  the  foible  which  all 
tradition  lays  at  the  sportsman's  door  ;  he  liked  to 
talk  of,  and  perhaps  to  magnify,  hie  '  bag,' — *  se 
plaisait,'  says  a  French  historian,  '  a  parler  de  ses 
succes.'  His  ministers  were  regaled  with  little 
histories  of  yesterday's  famous  exploits  in  the  forest, 
and  the  passionate  hunter  is   discovered  now  in  a 

P 


210  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

sage  epistle  on  affairs,  and  now  in  an  amorous  billet. 
His  Nimrod's  fame  had  spread  to  our  own  fog-smitten 
coasts,  and  Sully  notes  that  when  he  was  ambassador 
in  London,  James  I.  put  many  questions  to  him 
thereupon.  More  than  this,  the  first  of  the  Stuarts 
wrote  to  Henri  entreating  him  to  send  over  some 
French  veneurs  capable  of  instructing  his  own  hunts- 
men in  the  art  of  taking  the  stag  with  blood- 
hounds,— perhaps  the  only  instance  in  history 
where  England  seeks  French  aid  in  a  matter  of 
sport. 

In  France,  Henri  IV.  has  survived  as  the  type  of 
the  roi  chasseur ;  and  for  this  reason,  no  doubt,  as 
Jullien  thinks,  his  memory  has  carried  reproaches 
which  certain  of  his  predecessors  on  the  throne, 
not  less  culpable  than  he,  have  escaped.  His 
revision  of  the  celebrated  '  Code  des  Chasses '  was 
not  managed,  to  be  sure,  in  a  spirit  the  most  gener- 
ous, but  the  least  generous  of  its  clauses  had  the 
sanction  of  tradition  and  of  the  age.  At  the  death 
of  Henri  III. — who,  though  no  sportsman,  was  a 
hard  law-giver  in  sport,  in  the  interests  solely  of  the 
4  classes ' — the  chase  in  its  every  branch  remained, 
with  few  and  rare  exceptions,  the  exclusive  privilege 
of  the  nobility  and  of  the  bourgeois  '  vivant  noble- 
ment.'     The  '  veritable  school  of  war '  from  the  end 


THE  CHASE  211 

of  the  fourteenth  century,  successive  kings  of  France 
were  resolved  that  la  chasse  should  be  reserved  to 
the  military  caste.  Hence,  from  one  generation  to 
another,  those  harsh  enactments  to  the  prejudice  of 
labourers,  artisans,  and  the  whole  orders  of  '  gens 
m^chaniques  et  ro tuners,'  mechanic  and  vulgar 
folk, — of  all,  in  a  word,  who  were  not  called  upon  to 
carry  arms  in  the  king's  defence.  The  '  Code  '  adroitly 
put  it  that  the  lively  pleasures  of  the  chase,  easily 
seducing  the  simple  from  their  ■  proper  cares,'  and 
as  easily  degenerating  into  a  passion  (most  kings  of 
France  might  have  rendered  oath  on  this  point), 
could  not  but  result  in  harm  to  the  general  weal  if 
they  were  accorded  freely  to  every  subject  of  the 
king.  But  prescripts  of  this  colour,  which,  whatever 
was  pretended  for  them,  had  no  real  end  but  to 
keep  the  common  folk  from  the  coverts,  were  con- 
tinually setting  on  edge  the  teeth  of  that  innumer- 
able class  which  could  never,  except  by  poaching, 
get  a  hare  or  a  bird  for  the  pot.  And  the  restriction 
was  the  more  unkind  for  this,  that  though  king  on 
the  one  side  and  nobles  on  the  other  might  be  hunt- 
ing and  hawking  from  cock-crow  to  curfew,  game 
never  lacked  in  France.  Such  tracts  had  been 
enclosed  for  hunting  over  the  country's  whole  extent 
that  the  mere  leakage  from  those  immense  preserves 

p2 


212  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

would  have  fattened  an  army  on  ground  game.  But 
the  rule  ran,  that  if  a  peasant's  dog,  following  him 
to  the  fields  of  a  morning,  killed  any  fur  or  feather 
that  sportsmen  hunted,  the  peasant  must  carry  the 
spoil  to  the  chateau. 

The  case  as  appertaining  to  field  sports  stood  thus 
when  Henri  IV.  reached  the  throne.  If  his  own 
legislation  on  the  subject  be  examined,  it  will  appear 
that  Henri  was,  in  some  important  details,  a  reformer 
rather  than  an  abettor  of  the  old  draconian  code. 
Taking  his  stand  upon  the  principles  established 
by  Francis  I.,  he  approved  and  maintained  those 
physical  penalties  of  prison,  the  pillory,  and  the 
whip  which  had  been  in  force  for  generations  ;  but 
he  restricted  their  application  to  •  les  personnes  viles 
et  abjectes,  et  non  autres.'  There  remained  the 
barbarous  punishment  of  death,  which  the  code  of 
Francis  enjoined  in  cases  where  a  '  common  person,' 
three  times  convicted  and  banished,  broke  his  ban 
and  was  condemned  a  fourth  time  for  the  heinous 
offence  of  killing  large  game.  It  is  clear  that  the 
death  penalty  for  deer-slayers  was  little  to  the 
liking  of  Henri  IV.,  for,  while  suffering  it  to  remain 
upon  the  statute  book,  he  declared  its  infliction  'facul- 
tatif,'  or  optional,  on  the  part  of  the  presiding  judge, 
with  an  emphatic  hint  that  there  were  such  things  as 
extenuating  circumstances.     One  may  conclude  that 


THE  CHASE  213 

not  many  poachers  of  deer  went  to  the  gallows  in 
Henri's  time. 

But  he  was  severe  upon  his  own  officers  of  the 
hunt,  and  was  for  treating  no  better  than  a  common 
poacher  any  negligent  master  of '  woods  and  waters,' 
any  guard  or  overseer  of  the  royal  preserves  who 
showed  the  smallest  laxity  in  his  business. 

In  1600  he  made  the  stag  a  royal  quarry,  prohibit- 
ing even  the  nobles  from  hunting  it  on  their  own 
lands.  The  following  year  he  forbade  the  chase  of 
the  roebuck  within  a  radius  of  three  leagues  from  any 
royal  forest. 

Under  the  Valois  kings  the  use  of  firearms  in  sport 
(though  not  quite  unknown  during  the  closing  years 
of  the  dynasty)  was  strictly  disallowed.  The  first 
plea  was  the  dangerous  character  of  the  weapons, 
but  a  more  substantial  motive  was  the  opposition 
encountered  from  nearly  all  sportsmen  of  the  antique 
school.  Force  your  prey  with  your  hounds,  face 
your  tusker  with  spear  or  a  mere  hunting-knife  at 
the  critical  moment,  fly  your  falcon — trained  with 
infinity  of  pains — at  his  proper  game :  this  was  the 
true  sport,  within  the  canons  of  du  Fouilloux  and 
the  old  masters.  La  chaise  and  la  fauconnerie :  these 
only  were  legitimate  on  French  soil;  what  had 
powder  and  ball  to  do  with  these  ?  But  the  firearm 
came  on  the  scene,  by  stealth,  as  it  were.    Its  use 


214  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

once  proved  in  battle,  there  were  innovators  on  the 
field  of  sport  who  would  put  it  to  the  test  in  the 
coverts.  Then  a  new  complaint :  the  gun  would 
empty  France  of  game.  Nine  out  of  ten  among  the 
older  sportsmen  opposed  it,  but  the  bloods  of  the 
rising  era  clamoured  for  the  firearm,  and  it  was  made 
a  vexed  question  for  the  later  Valois. 

Inevitably,  it  came  for  settlement  before  Henri  IV., 
and  that  accomplished  hunter,  inclining  always  to 
the  older  rules  of  the  game,  which  seemed  at  that 
date  to  furnish  the  better  tests  of  skill  and  bravery 
in  the  field,  wavered  over  the  final  word.  He  pro- 
nounced for  the  gun,  and  then  forbade  it  ;  forbade  it, 
and  sanctioned  it  again.  It  was  the  one  question  in 
the  whole  arena  of  sport  upon  which  his  private 
mind  was  never  quite  resolved.  But  in  1604  he 
gave  a  definite  edict  in  favour  of  the  gun  ;  and  his 
last  decree  on  the  subject,  issued  three  years  later, 
modified  the  first  one  only  to  the  extent  that  no  game 
should  be  shot  within  three  miles  of  the  royal 
warrens.  From  this  date,  accordingly,  the  gun  be- 
came a  legal  weapon  of  the  chase  in  France.  The 
new  law,  not  afterwards  modified,  left  the  hunter 
where  he  was ;  but  it  spoiled  the  art  of  falconry. 
Louis  XIII.,  Henri  IV.'s  successor,  was  the  last  king 
of  France  who  went  a-hawking  in  the  old  style,  and 
who  maintained  an  aviary  for  the  pleasure  of  it. 


THE  CHASE  215 

Born  at  Saint-Germain-en-Laye  in  September, 
1638,  Louis  XIV.  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  May, 
1643.  A  king  in  childhood,  he  lacked  during  many 
years  even  the  shadow  of  kingly  power.  His  disa- 
bilities under  Anne  of  Austria  and  Cardinal  Mazarin 
were  those  of  the  young  Charles  IX.  under  Catherine 
de  Medicis,  and  at  twenty-two  his  kingdom  of 
France  was  scarcely  more  to  him  than  a  pleasure- 
garden.  But  the  future  roi  soleil  was  even  then  a 
very  sparkling  youth,  the  pink  of  fashion,  excellent 
at  games,  a  rare  dancer,  a  neat  shot,  and  a  first-rate 
horseman.  He  had  what  the  French  call  '  le  talent 
des  fetes,'  and  was  an  incomparable  promoter  of  pic- 
nics. At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  learned  in  field 
sports,  hawked  a  little  at  Vincennes,  hunted  and 
coursed  incessantly  at  Versailles  and  Saint-Germain. 
Falconry  he  esteemed  but  lightly,  and  in  France 
that  pretty  mode  of  sport  dates  its  decline  from  this 
effulgent  reign. 

With  the  power  in  his  hands,  and  with  maturer 
years,  Louis  grew  greatly  more  exclusive.  He  dis- 
liked hunting  alone,  but  he  disliked  quite  as  much 
the  attendance  of  a  crowd.  He  had,  within  limits, 
a  certain  genuine  taste  in  almost  everything  that 
took  his  interest,  and  it  was  never  the  flamboyant 
taste  of  Francis  I.  The  chase  had  a  kind  of  aesthe- 
tic or  ornamental  value  for  him,  and  a  well-ordered 


216  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

hunt  was  always  in  the  programme  of  the  festivities 
of  the  Court ;  but  Louis  XIV.  was  no  trifler  in  the 
field,  and  true  hunting  days  were  quiet  and  business- 
like. He  had  Henri  IV.'s  disregard  of  weather,  and 
would  ride  hour  after  hour  in  a  pelting  rain  without 
knowing  that  he  was  wet.  No  king  ever  understood 
quite  so  well  as  Louis  XIV.  the  art  of  always  show- 
ing himself  at  his  best;  and  when  he  understood 
that,  good  as  he  was  after  the  hounds,  he  was  a  little 
better  with  the  gun,  he  cultivated  his  marksmanship 
at  the  expense  of  his  horsemanship.  He  carried  his 
gun  even  when  he  went  a-hawking,  and,  greatly  to 
the  chagrin  of  his  falconers,  he  would  bring  down  a 
pheasant  or  a  heron  before  the  falcon  had  had  time  to 
strike. 

Henri  IV.,  who  never  shot  for  the  pleasure  of 
shooting,  and  who  seldom  took  a  gun  to  the  woods, 
sanctioned  the  firearm  in  the  interests  of  his  younger 
courtiers ;  Louis  XIV.  made  it  popular.  A  good 
and  graceful  shot,  he  handled  the  gun  with  delight ; 
and  nothing  that  Louis  excelled  in  ever  lacked  an 
imitator  at  his  Court. 

But  although,  for  his  own  pride  and  pleasure,  he 
set  the  gun  in  the  first  place,  and  put  horse  and 
hounds  in  the  second,  and  gave  a  poor  third  to  the 
falcon  which  his  ancestors  had  honoured,  the  hunt- 
establishment  of  Louis  was  lavishly  and  splendidly 


THE  CHASE  2YI 

equipped  throughout.  His  aviary,  which  he  hardly 
ever  glanced  into,  and  from  which  he  took  a  falcon, 
perhaps,  once  in  the  twelvemonth,  was  the  richest 
in  Europe.  He  had  never  fewer  than  eighty  hunt- 
ers in  his  stables,  and  the  blood  was  the  best  that 
the  century  could  produce.  The  royal  kennels  at 
Versailles  and  at  Marly  were  not  wide  enough  to 
contain  his  foxhounds,  his  staghounds,  his  grey- 
hounds, his  wolf-hounds,  his  harriers,  and  his  setters 
At  the  age  of  sixty-two,  he  finds  his  favourite  pack 
a  little  too  swift  for  him,  and  gives  an  order  at  once 
for  a  slower  one,  at  whatever  price. 

His  preserves  were  maintained  for  him  in  the 
style  of  his  kennels,  his  aviary,  and  his  stables. 
Partridges  and  pheasants  were  reared  by  the  thous- 
and in  every  royal  demesne ;  and  his  keepers  kept 
the  strictest  note  of  all  the  big  game  in  his  forests. 

The  chief  offices  of  Louis'  hunt  were  posts  of  the 
highest  distinction.  His  Grand  Veneur,  or  Chief 
Huntsman,  was  the  Due  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  a  comp- 
troller after  the  king's  own  heart,  who  was  sump- 
tuously lodged  'in  a  kind  of  palace  '  at  the  kennels 
of  Versailles  (built  at  a  cost  of  two  hundred  thous- 
and crowns),  where  a  table  was  always  spread  for 
the  Court.  The  stables  for  the  personal  service  of 
the  Grand  Veneur  were  so  largely  furnished  that, 
when  certain  creditors  were  pressing  for  a  settle- 


218  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

ment,  he  could  sell  off  sixty  of  his  horses,  '  sans  en 
etre  gene.'  It  needs  no  saying  that  the  prodigal 
duke  kept  his  Majesty's  hunt  on  a  famous  footing, 
this  indeed  being  the  sole  condition  on  which  Louis 
would  be  served,  for  he  was  to  the  full  as  exacting 
in  his  sporting  establishment  as  Henri  IV.  had  been. 
We  have  a  quaint  picture  of  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld 
in  1709,  when,  too  infirm  to  ride,  he  would  be  drag- 
ged after  the  hunt  in  a  lumbering  caleche,  deaf  and 
nearly  blind,  and  swearing  under  his  breath  when 
hounds  were  checked. 

They  were  all,  or  nearly  all,  blue-blooded  in  the 
service  of  the  chase  in  this  reign.  M.  de  Villarceaux 
had  charge  of  the  foxhounds.  M.  de  Verderonne 
was  '  captain  of  the  Scotch  pack,  hunting  the  hare 
for  the  pleasure  of  his  Majesty.'  The  Grands- 
Lou  vetiers,  huntsmen  of  the  wolf-hounds,  were 
Charles  de  Bailleul,  Nicolas  his  son,  Gaspard  de 
Saint-Herem,  and  the  Marquis  d'Heudicourt.  A 
dignitary  of  the  Church,  the  Abbe  de  Sainte  Croix, 
had  the  staghounds.  A  very  fine  company  !  The 
king  himself  kept  them  going  briskly,  always  had  a 
vigilant  eye  to  his  kennels,  and  understood  as  well 
as  anyone  the  weeding  out  of  sickly  or  useless 
dogs.  If  any  pack  suffered  badly  from  disease, 
some  favourite  of  the  king  was  ready  with  a  present 


THE  CHASE  219- 

of  a  sounder  strain,   'which  was  always  very  gra- 
ciously accepted.' 

Control  of  the  royal  woods  and  warrens  placed  at 
the  king's  disposal  another  set  of  coveted  appoint- 
ments.    The  Marquis  of  Saint-Simon  was  •  captain  ' 
of  Senlis  and  the  forest  of  Halatte  ;  M.  de  Belief onds 
of  Vincennes  ;  Saint-Herem  of  Fontainebleau ;  Lieu- 
tenant-General  de  Mornay  of  Saint-Germain,  and  so 
forth.     These  offices,  though  never  highly  salaried, 
were  not  exactly  sinecures,  for  the  noble  captains 
must  look  to  it  that  the  preserves  entrusted  to  their 
keeping  were  well  maintained  in  game  of  every  sort. 
But,  whatever  the  post  in  connection  with  the  royal 
hunt,  there  were  rich  or  titled  candidates  in  plenty 
when  a  new  appointment  was  to  be   made.     A  chief 
falconer  dies,   and  '  a  certain  gentleman  of  distin- 
guished birth  '  offers  two  hundred  thousand  crowns 
for  the  office.     The  staff  of  the  aviary  enjoyed  one 
or  two  special  privileges.     Thus,  every  year,  when 
the  king  assisted  at  the  killiug   of  the  first  black 
kite — a  rare  bird  enough — the  'capitaine  du  vol,' 
presumably  the   gentleman  who  flew  the  falcon,  re- 
ceived from  his  majesty  a  present  of  the  horse  he 
was  riding,  along  with  his  '  robe  de  chambre.' 

All  his  life  Louis  was  devising  small  distinctions, 
the    bestowal    or  withdrawal   of  which    kept    his 


220  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

immediate  entourage  in  a  tremor  of  expectancy. 
Everyone  attached  to  the  Court,  for  example,  had 
leave  to  hunt  the  stag  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  ; 
elsewhere  this  quarry  could  be  hunted  only  by  the 
sovereign's  particular  permission.  Again,  the  favour 
of  donning  the  uniform  of  the  royal  hunt — the  blue 
doublet  lined  with  red,  and  plentifully  bespattered 
with  gold  and  silver  lace — was  very  sparingly 
accorded ;  at  Marly  it  was  restricted  to  a  duke, 
two  or  three  marquises,  and  a  count.  A  mere  invi- 
tation to  join  the  king's  shooting  party  on  a  Sunday 
or  a,  jour  de  fete  was  counted  a  signal  honour,  and 
Jullien  says  that  even  the  '  high  dignitaries  of  the 
Court '  were  very  rarely  bidden. 

The  king  himself  hunted  and  shot  almost  to  the 
last.  Finished  horseman  as  he  was,  he  came  to 
grief  occasionally,  and  a  fall  in  Fontainebleau  in 
1683  cost  him  a  broken  arm;  but  his  nerve  seems 
never  to  have  been  impaired.  Under  the  weight  of 
years,  and  in  failing  health,  he  followed  the  hounds 
in  a  carriage,  as  his  favourite  chief-huntsman  had 
done,  driving  four  small  horses  at  full  speed  through 
the  woods,  says  Saint-Simon,  '  avec  une  adresse  et 
une  justesse  que  n'avoient  pas  les  meilleurs  cochers.' 
On  occasion,  '  les  princesses  et  certaines  dames 
privil^giees '  drove  with  the  monarch  in  this  manner ; 


THE  CHASE  221 

and  at  Versailles,  Marly,  Fontainebleau,  and  Saint- 
Germain  there  was  at  this  date  such  a  reticulation 
of  roads  and  decent  by-ways  that  Louis  and  his 
ladies  and  his  gallopers  were  generally  in  at  the 
death.  Even  in  the  enfeebled  days  of  the  four-in- 
hand,  he  would  now  and  then  call  for  his  horse,  and 
insist  upon  heading  the  hunt  in  the  saddle.  One 
day,  quite  an  old  man,  but  with  the  hunter's  blood 
still  tingling  in  him,  he  faced  alone  a  boar  that  he 
had  wounded,  and  killed  it,  after  the  boar,  with 
four  strokes  of  his  tusks,  had  slain  the  horse  the 
king  was  riding. 

The  legislation  of  Louis  XIV.  in  matters  of  the 
chase  was  characteristic  of  the  man  and  of  his  times. 
Opinions  were  advancing,  and  in  his  public  acts 
Louis  was  usually  well  abreast  of  opinion.  It  was 
growing  late  in  the  day  to  put  one's  subjects  to 
death  for  persistent  poaching,  and  Louis  took  a 
step  in  advance  of  Henri  IV.  by  sparing  the  gallows 
to  all  offenders  under  the  game  laws.  From  his 
reign,  no  one  was  ever  hanged  or  tortured  in  France 
for  the  crime  of  killing  food.  For  the  rest,  his 
edicts  of  the  chase  were  harsh  enough,  and  on  all 
of  them  the  stamp  of  his  absolutism  is  plain  to  see. 
Commoners  were  forbidden  to  carry  firearms. 
Poachers  were  to  be  whipped  for  the  first  offence, 


222  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

whipped  and  banished  five  years  for  the  second. 
'Seigneurs,  gentilshommes,  et  nobles'  were  pro- 
hibited from  hunting  within  a  league  of  the  king's 
own  territory.  '  Merchants,  artisans,  bourgeois,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  cities,  towns,  parishes,  villages, 
and  hamlets,  together  with  all  peasants  and  people 
of  mean  estate,  not  possessing  fiefs,  manors,  or  the 
right  of  exercising  justice '  were  excluded  from 
all  participation  in  the  chase,  on  pain  of  a  fine  of  a 
hundred  livres  for  a  first  conviction,  twice  that 
amount  for  a  second,  and  three  hours  in  the  pillory 
on  market-day,  supplemented  by  three  years'  banish- 
ment, for  a  third.  Dwellers  on  the  banks  of  rivers 
skirting  the  royal  domains  (let  their  quality  be  what 
it  might)  were  strictly  prohibited  from  any  interference 
with  '  les  officiers  de  nos  chasses ;'  a  fine  of  three 
thousand  livres  was  inflicted  in  the  first  instance, 
and  if  the  king's  gamekeepers  complained  a  second 
time  the  offending  landowner  was  deprived  of  all 
hunting  rights.  Within  the  circumference  of  the 
vast  warren  of  the  Louvre,  spreading  six  miles 
around  Paris,  no  grass  or  any  green  food  might  be 
cut  while  the  king's  partridges  were  hatching.  Vine- 
props  were  not  to  be  left  standing  in  the  vineyards, 
lest  they  should  hamper  the  royal  chase. 

These  are  samples  of    the  hunting-laws    of   the 


THE  CHASE  228 

Grand  Roi,  and  wherever  the  jurisdiction  was 
entrusted  to  his  own  officers  they  were  enforced 
severely.  Magistrates,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
often  bold  enough  to  act  with  leniency,  refus- 
ing the  sanction  of  the  bench,  as  Jullien  observes, 
to  '  rigours  worthy  of  another  epoch.' 


221 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS. 

i. 

There  is  at  least  one  chamber  of  the  mediaeval 
monastery  into  which  a  modern  student  of  letters 
glances  with  sympathy  and  a  lively  interest.  It  is 
the  Scriptorium,  or  writing-room,  where  those  of  the 
brethren  who  were  apt  at  the  pen  and  brush  toiled 
over  the  manuscripts  which  our  own  age  has 
cherished  as  gems  of  penmanship  and  colour.  Alike 
from  history  and  from  chronicle  it  is  learned  that 
the  Scriptorium  was  regarded  as  a  sacred  place.  It 
seems,  as  a  rule,  to  have  been  hidden  away  in  the 
very  bosom  of  the  monastic  pile ;  there  was  often 
if  not  always  some  pious  inscription  over  the  door, 
and  the  right  of  entry  belonged  only  to  the  abbe, 
the  prior,  the  sub-prior,  and  the  librarian. 

If  the  place  itself  were  invested  with  a  certain 
sanctity,  a  still  higher  degree  of  sanctity  attached  to 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS  225 

the  labours  of  the  copyists.  An  example  is  furnished 
by  the  puissant  confraternity  of  the  Chartreux,  or 
Carthusians.  Most  of  the  religious  orders  kept  some 
kind  of  school  or  seminary  within  their  walls ; 
schools  which  were  incessantly  at  war  with  all  the 
scholastic  and  collegiate  bodies  covered  by  the 
aegis  of  the  University  of  Paris.  The  Carthusians, 
keeping  no  school,  devoted  themselves  with  special 
and  exemplary  zeal  to  the  production  of  what  were 
called  '  good  '  or  '  pious '  works  in  manuscript, — 
copies  of  portions  of  the  Bible,  or  lives  of  the 
saints.  The  task  of  transcribing  these  was  a 
devout  exercise,  and  the  prayer  which  was  offered 
when  the  monks  took  up  their  pens  asked  the  blessing 
of  heaven  on  the  writers  and  on  the  works  which 
they  were  to  copy.  The  most  minute  and  scrupu- 
lous exactitude  was  demanded  of  every  scribe  whose 
skill  in  transcription  admitted  him  to  the  Scriptorium, 
for  it  was  a  tradition  in  every  monastery  that  to 
omit  a  letter,  or  carelessly  to  substitute  a  wrong 
letter  for  a  right  one,  was  to  commit  an  offence 
against  the  faith ;  and  that,  per  contra,  every 
letter  rightly  copied  was  a  sin  compounded  for  at 
the  judgment.  The  legend  of  the  peccant  monk 
who  escaped  damnation  by  the  weight  of  one  letter 
of  the  alphabet  seems  to  have  been  current  in  all 
mediaeval    cloisters.     It  is    one   of  the   ohoice   old 

Q 


226  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

foolish  tales,  racy  of  its  era,  of  which  no  one  knows 
the  origin.  Rabelais  himself  has  missed  it,  yet  it 
was  quite  clearly  an  article  of  belief  in  the  monas- 
teries. A  devil  laid  a  charge  against  a  monk 
(neither  devil  nor  monk  is  named  in  the  annals)  who 
was  admittedly  a  sinner  '  in  respect  of  numberless 
rules  of  his  monastery.'  But  the  monk  had  learned 
to  write,  he  had  copied  in  a  fine  gothic  hand  some 
three-fourths  of  the  Bible,  and  the  angels  took  a 
brief  for  him  against  the  devil  unnamed.  It  was 
agreed  that  every  separate  letter  of  every  holy 
word  that  the  monk  had  copied  should  redeem  a 
sin, — and  he  came  out  with  one  letter  to  the  good. 
A  similar  legend  was  that  of  the  demon  Titivilitarius, 
or  Titivillus,  who  used  to  carry  away  to  hell  every 
morning  a  sack  filled  with  the  letters  which  the 
monks  had  slipped,  whether  from  their  manuscripts 
or  from  their  prayers.  One  may  conjecture  that 
these  formidable  stories  had  no  more  formidable 
origin  than  the  desire  of  the  abbe  that  his  monks 
should  copy  their  tasks  correctly, — for  the  sale  of 
exact  and  handsome  manuscripts  (in  an  age  when 
anything  that  could  be  called  a  '  book '  ranked 
high  among  the  treasures  of  the  wealthy)  was  a 
part  of  the  revenue  of  all  the  great  monasteries. 

But  the  monks  wrought  under    a    happy  star. 
Beyond  these  cloistered  seats,  the  conditions  were 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         227 

less  delectable.  There  is  a  humorous  and  there 
is  a  pathetic  aspect  of  the  ardent  struggle  of  the 
mediaeval  clerk  to  attain  perfection  in  the  art  of 
writing.  He  lacked  almost  everything  that  was 
necessary  to  him ;  the  simplest  and  most  indispens- 
able tools  of  the  craft  were  scarce  and  costly ;  and 
scarcer  almost,  and  infinitely  more  costly,  were  the 
models  which  he  sought  to  copy.  As  for  tools,  we 
are  still  in  the  era  of  the  tablet  and  the  stylus  ;  and 
where,  outside  the  jealous  seclusion  of  the  Scriptorium, 
should  a  poor  student  procure  manuscripts  to  work 
from  ?  Nay,  so  great  and  sore  was  the  dearth  of 
written  works  of  every  description,  that  the  very 
priests,  in  many  instances,  had  not  proper  books  for 
the  offices  of  the  church.  In  not  a  few  of  the 
beautiful  churches  of  gothic  Paris,  the  breviary 
common  to  all  the  clergy  of  the  staff  was  enclosed 
in  a  kind  of  cage,  which  was  open  only  during  the 
hours  of  service,  and  prayers  were  promised  for 
rich  parishioners  who  should  give  or  bequeath  some 
precious  manuscript.  Imagine  then  the  difficulties 
of  the  needy  student  who  had  not  a  place  in  some 
favoured  and  beneficent  abbey.  He  must  con 
and  re-write,  until  he  knew  by  heart,  the  copy-book 
which  his  writing-master  had  dictated  to  him  ;  and 
the  pedagogue  of  those  days  seems  not  often  to 
have  been  better  equipped  for  his  business  than  the 

Q2 


228  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

hedge-schoolmaster  of  whom  Carleton  has  left  us  a 
terrible  picture.  He  flogged  into  his  starveling 
pupils  indifferent  Latin,  and  a  stenography  which 
M.  Franklin  in  his  '  Ecoles  et  Colleges,'  describes 
as  '  une  stenographic  toute  de  fantaisie.'  M.  Frank- 
lin cites  from  the  'Logique'  of  Okan  a  specimen  of  the 
abbreviated  style  reduced  to  absurdity :  •  Sic  hie  e 
fal  sm  qd  ad  simplr  a  e  pducibile  a  deo  g  a  e  et  silr 
hie  a  n  e  g  a  n  e  pducibile  a  do.,' — no  attempt  what- 
ever at  punctuation.  Expanded  into  the  school- 
man's Latin,  the  enigma  reads  thus  :  '  Sicut  hie  est 
fallacia  secundem  quid  ad  simpliciter.  A  est 
producibile  a  Deo,  ergo  A  est.  Et  similiter  hie,  A 
non  est,  ergo  A  non  est  producibile  a  Deo.' 

We  are  still,  I  have  said,  with  the  tablet  and  the 
stylus.  Tablets  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies may  be  seen  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale, 
with  the  inscriptions  traced  over  wax  or  plaster. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century  the 
manufacture  of  these  tablets  was  so  considerable  as 
to  give  employment  to  a  distinct  corporation  in 
Paris,  and  among  the  substances  in  common  use  for 
the  purpose  were  ivory,  ebony,  horn,  cedar,  beech, 
and  box.  Parchment  and  vellum  were,  however,  in 
much  more  general  demand  than  tablets  of  wood  or 
ivory,  and  in  old  Paris  the  parchment-makers  were 
a  society  of  some  importance.     It  is  odd  to  find  that 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         229 

the  trade  was  very  frequently  associated  with  that 
of  publican  or  tavern-keeper,  but  there  was  a  reason, 
and  a  shrewd  one.     The  students  of  the  University, 
for  all  their  lust  of  knowledge  (a  knowledge  bought 
by  most  of  them  at  a  bitter  price),  and  devotion  to 
their  Pays  Latin,  were  eminent  disturbers  of  the 
peace,  and  good  samplers  of  what  Rabelais  calls  the 
holy-water  of  the  cellar.     The  best  toAvn-and-gown 
row  witnessed  unwillingly  by   Mr.  Verdant  Green 
was  a  frolic  of  Sunday-scholars  in  comparison  with 
the  scene  when  the  students  of  Paris  turned  out  to 
storm  an  abbey,  or  to  settle  accounts  Avith  a  pro- 
vost whose  archers  had  laid  hands  on  an  obstreper- 
ous bursar  ;  and  the  pauper  student  who  had  to  sing 
his  suit  for  daily  bread  through  the  dirty  streets  of 
the    mediaeval    capital : — '  Pain   por  Dieu   aus   es- 
,  coliers,'    or  who    earned  a   few    sous    by    casting 
holy    Avater  on    the    corpses    in  the    Hotel    Dieu, 
could    somehow    find    the   whereAvithal  to    '  drink 
neat'   in  his  particular   tavern  after  dark.     Hence 
the   rector  of    the   University,   Avho   Avas  at   once 
the   patron  and  the   governor   of  the   parchment- 
makers,  Avas  not  mrwilling  that  they  should  be  pub- 
licans to  boot ;  for  their  houses,  being  necessarily 
Avithin  the  confines  of  the  Pays  Latin   (a  district 
which  embraced  one-third  of  all  Paris)  were  almost 
directly  under  his  control. 


230  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

The  condition  of  the  manuscripts  -which  have 
come  down  to  us  leaves  no  doubt  that  the  parchment 
or  vellum  was  prepared  with  the  nicest  art.  Bishops 
were  not  above  giving  the  parcheminiers  a  hint 
from  the  pulpit,  and  in  a  sermon  of  Hildebert's  there 
are  instructions  as  to  the  best  means  of  scouring  and 
polishing  the  surface  to  be  written  on.  If  gold  or 
silver  were  to  be  used,  the  parchment  was  stained 
a  deep  purple.  The  use  of  silver  ink  was  per- 
sisted in  longer  than  it  should  have  been,  for  it 
changed  colour  or  faded  even  in  the  lifetime  of  the 
writers ;  but  one  would  like  to  re-discover  the  se- 
cret of  that  magic  gold,  the  characters  of  which  are 
still  as  brilliant  as  on  the  day  that  they  were  traced. 
Curious  artists  among  the  parcheminiers  experimented 
on  this  substance  and  on  that,  and  there  is  mention 
that  the  human  skin  was  of  little  worth  to  the  craft. 
A  fine  Bible,  '  aussi  remarquable,'  says  M.  Franklin, 
'  par  l'elegance  des  caracteres  que  par  la  blancheur 
et  la  finesse  du  velin,'  was  thought  by  the  Abbe  Rive 
to  have  been  written  on  the  skin  of  a  woman.  It 
was  written  in  reality  on  the  skin  of  a  still-born 
Irish  lamb ;  and  a  French  commentator  of  the  period 
makes  this  note  upon  the  fact :  '  The  skin  of  a  man 
is  nothing  to  the  skin  of  a  sheep.  Sheep-skin  is 
good  for  writing  on  both  sides,  but  the  skin  of  a 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         231 

dead  man  is  just  about  as  profitable  as  his  bones  ; 
better  bury  him,  skin  and  bones  together.' 

Ink,  as  distinguished  from  the  mixture  of  smoke- 
black,  gum,  and  water,  makes  its  first  appearance  in 
Paris  at  some  period  in  the  twelfth  century.  The 
introduction  of  paper  dates  from  the  same  era,  but 
paper  was  rare  and  dear  long  after  this.  There 
were  not  many  sheets  of  paper  in  the  little  folding- 
desk  which  the  schoolboy  tucked  under  his  arm  as 
he  shivered  through  the  streets  at  sunrise  to  his 
place  in  the  straw  of  the  school-room. 

The  sundry  persons  or  corporations  concerned  in 
the  mechanical  production  of  books  were  clients  or 
dependents  of  the  University.  The  position  had 
its  drawbacks,  but  it  did  not  lack  advantages.  If 
the  authority  exercised  by  the  University  struck  to 
some  extent  at  the  independence  of  the  workers,  it 
also  contributed  not  a  little  to  their  protection.  For 
example,  the  delegates  chosen  from  among  the 
several  '  communantes  ouvrieres'  were  actual  mem- 
bers of  the  University,  and  shared  in  the  very  sub- 
stantial legal  privileges  (dating  from  the  reign  of 
Philippe  Auguste,  1180-1223)  which  were  enjoyed 
by  every  accredited  teacher  and  his  pupils.  As 
clients  of  the  University,  the  trades  associated  with 
letters  marched  in  the  ranks  of  that  stalwart  institu- 


2S2  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

tion  on  the  days  of  the  '  solemn  processions,' — the 
booksellers  leading  the  way,  followed  in  order  by 
the  paper-makers,  the  parchment-makers,  the  ecri- 
vains,  the  binders,  and  the  illuminators.  Like  the 
mediaeval  Church,  which  sold  its  favours  unreserved- 
ly in  the  full  light  of  day,  the  University  exacted 
the  price  of  its  protection.  Not  a  bundle  of  parch- 
ment could  be  placed  on  the  market  until  the  rector 
had  received  his  toll ;  and  the  sales  were  restricted,  M. 
Franklin  says,  to  three  places :  the  fair  of  Saint- 
Laurent,  the  more  celebrated  fair  of  Lendit,  and  the 
convent  or  monastery  of  the  Mathurins.  Payment 
of  the  rector's  dues  did  not  leave  the  parchment- 
makers  in  the  position  of  free-traders  :  the  King,  the 
Bishop  of  Paris,  the  masters  of  the  University,  and 
the  students  had  the  right  to  purchase  on  terms 
which  were  not  exactly  those  of  competitive  com- 
merce. The  pen-making  industry  seems  to  have 
been  less  severely  taxed,  and  it  advanced  with  the 
sales  of  parchment;  but  within  a  year  or  two  of 
the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  (1596)  there  were 
only  twelve  reputed  shops  in  Paris  where  '  plumes  a 
ecrire  '  could  be  bought. 

Ink  had  secrets  of  its  own  for  generations.  At 
one  time,  quite  a  little  library  of  treatises  appeared, 
each  particular  treatise  disclosing  a  new  recipe  for 
the  preparation  of  '  the  one  and  only  enduring  ink ;' 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         233 

but  the  monkish  magicians  who  had  the  secret  of 
the  ink  of  gold  kept  their  peace.  For  the  commoner 
inks,  the  scribes  of  the  monasteries  had  one  set  of 
recipes,  and  the  lay  writers  another ;  our  own  age 
has  produced  a  better  article,  but  the  one  supreme 
ink  of  the  middle  ages,  the  gold  ink  that  never 
filtered  through  the  guarded  door  of  the  Scriptorium, 
has  defied  all  imitation. 

The  booksellers  or  stationers,  who  represented 
the  secular  branch  of  the  trade,  came  under  the 
surveillance  of  the  University  late  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  when  the  traffic  in  books  had  ceased  to  be 
exclusively  the  affair  of  the  religious  orders.  The 
pious  labours  of  the  ScrijAoriian  were  concentrated 
chiefly  upon  works  of  a  sacred  nature ;  books  relat- 
ing to  civil  law  or  medicine,  for  instance,  were 
interdicted  to  the  copyists.  Hence,  as  the  demand 
arose,  there  would  arise  of  necessity  some  agency 
for  the  production  and  distribution  of  works  other 
than  those  which  were  to  be  obtained  from  the 
monasteries.  A  commerce  of  this  sort  must  very 
soon  attract  the  notice  of  the  University,  and  it  is 
probable  that  the  secular  book  trade  was  in  its  very 
infancy  under  this  control. 

As  far  back,  at  all  events,  as  1275,  when  Philippe 
le  Hardi  was  on  the  throne,  there  is  a  complete  set 
of  ordinances  by  which  the  bookseller  must  bind 


234  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

himself,  taking  an  oath  every  two  years,  between 
the  hands  of  the  rector.'  He  must  swear  '  faithfully 
to  receive,  take  care  of,  expose  for  sale,  and  sell  the 
works  which  should  be  entrusted  to  him.'  He 
might  not  purchase  them  for  himself  until  he  had 
kept  them  a  full  month  '  at  the  disposition  of  the 
masters  and  scholars.' 

The  name  of  the  author  and  the  price  must  be 
displayed  on  every  volume,  and  the  books  must  be 
exhibited  fairly  '  at  a  time  and  in  a  place  convenient 
for  selling  them.'  The  bookseller  in  his  turn  was 
admitted  to  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  Univer- 
sity. From  time  to  time,  the  laws  or  decrees  affect- 
ing the  book  trade  were  amended  or  extended,  and 
early  in  the  fourteenth  century  the  booksellers  of 
Paris  were  bidden  to  lend  the  students,  in  consider- 
ation of  a  small  deposit,  such  works  as  they  might 
wish  to  copy.  It  seems  that  the  prices  of  books 
were  determined  in  general  by  the  University  ;  the 
day  was  long  gone  by,  as  a  historian  observes,  when 
Grecie,  Countess  of  Anjou,  gave  in  return  for  the 
Homilies  of  Haimon  of  Halberstadt  two  hundred 
sheep,  a  muid  of  wheat,  another  of  rye,  and  some 
marten  skins. 

The  Scrivains  or  copyists  not  associated  with  the 
Church  were  sufficiently  numerous  at  the  beginning 
of  the  fourteenth  century  to  have  a  street  named 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         235- 

after  them,  the  Rue  aus  Escrivans,  and  at  this  date 
the  most  noted  of  the  Paris  copyists  numbered 
among  their  patrons  kings,  princes,  and  rich  seigneurs 
of  many  countries.  Henri  du  Trevou ;  Gobert,  '  le 
souverain  escripvain ;'  Sicard,  who  worked  for  King 
Richard  of  England ;  Guillemin,  in  the  pay  of  the 
Grand  Master  of  Rhodes ;  Jean  Flamel,  and  the 
famous  Nicolas  Flamel,  were  masters  of  the  pen  at 
this  era. 

Up  to  the  close  of  the  middle  ages,  the  style  of 
handwriting  which  had  the  greatest  vogue  (and  the 
only  style  employed  in  the  transcription  of  manu- 
scripts) was  the  stiff  but  elegant  gothic,  the 
characters  of  which  are  found  in  some  of  the  earliest 
products  of  the  printing-press.  But  the  cursive  or 
running-hand  was  also  well  known,  and  began, 
towards  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  to  gain 
upon  the  gothic  or  scholastic  hand.  As  education, 
commerce,  and  social  intercourse  advanced,  the 
occasions  and  necessities  of  writing  were  multiplied, 
and  the  formal  and  elaborate  style  of  the  leisurely 
Scriptorium,  and  of  the  well-paid  scribes  in  the 
employment  of  the  great,  began  to  be  superseded  by 
a  style  which  was  not  only  far  more  easily  acquired, 
but  which  enabled  the  writer  to  perform  a  much 
greater  quantity  of  work.  It  is  obvious,  on  the 
other  hand,  that,  the  greater  the  quantity  of  writing, 


286  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

the  greater  the  danger  that  the  quality  of  the  pen- 
manship would  deteriorate ;  and  on  this  point  we 
have  M.  Franklin's  testimony  that  French  hand- 
writing of  the  fifteenth  century  was  '  en  pleine 
decadence.' 

The  Benedictines,  learned  and  approved  critics  in 
this  matter,  declaimed  against  the  slovenly  and 
*  ridiculous '  penmanship  of  the  age,  which  was 
giving  to  the  world  '  a  mass  of  manuscripts  hideous 
to  behold.'  But,  in  sum,  what  did  all  this  really 
mean  ?  It  meant  that  the  pen,  driven  by  the  human 
hand,  was  no  longer  equal  to  the  multiplicity  of  the 
tasks  that  were  demanded  of  it.  The  age  of  writing, 
as  the  sole  or  chief  means  of  literary  intercourse, 
had  exhausted  itself:  the  era  of  the  printing-press 
was  come. 


II. 


Of  the  beginnings  of  printing  in  France ;  of  the 
coming  of  Fust  and  Schoiffer  from  Mayence  to  set 
up  a  press  in  Paris ;  of  their  reception  at  the  Sor- 
bonne  (the  college  at  which  Schoiffer  had  been 
birched  into  the  elements  of  Latin),  where  a  room 
was  assigned  them  for  their  work ;  of  the  birth  in 
this  room   (in   1470)   of   the   earliest  specimen   of 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         237 

French  typography,  an  edition  of  the  Epistles  of  the 
grammarian,  Gasparino  Barzizio,  it  would  be  quite 
too  long  to  tell.  A  volume  of  Sallust  followed  in 
1471,  and  in  two  years  the  rude  little  press  in  a 
chamber  of  the  Sorbonne  had  turned  out  no  fewer 
than  thirty  works,  representing  '  1146  feuillets  in- 
folio  et  102G  feuillets  in-quarto.' 

But,  to  keep  within  the  lists,  the  question  is,  what 
did  printing  do  for  or  against  the  interests  of  the 
writers  with  the  pen?  At  the  outset,  it  touched 
them  closely,  and  to  their  hurt.  There  had  been 
established,  in  the  first  years  of  the  printing-press, 
a  corporation  of  '  master-writers '  (their  origin  dates 
from  the  execution,  for  forgery,  of  a  secretary  of 
Charles  IX.),  who  made  very  good  rules  to  exclude 
the  competitors  of  whom  they  were  afraid,  and  who 
offered  small  inducements  to  the  writers  who  might 
have  served  them.  Here  and  there,  an  independent 
Geoffrey  Tory  laboured  to  restore  the  fallen  fortunes 
of  the  old  order  of  e'crivains,  to  reform  the  spelling 
which  had  passed  into  a  jest,  and  to  put  in  a  stop  at 
the  end  of  a  sentence  ;  but  -neither  a  Geoffrey  Tory 
nor  a  corporation  of  master-writers  could  stay  the 
demoralization  of  the  old  class  of  copyists,  whose 
occupations,  whose  privileges  and  profits,  and  whose 
very  existence  were  imperilled  by  the  new  machin- 
ery of  printing.     It  is,  however,  to  be  noted  that  at 


288  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

this  very  crisis,  when  the  art  of  writing  with  the 
pen  was  coming  to  be  reckoned  with  the  lost  arts, 
penmanship  in  France  began  in  reality  to  take  on 
that  personal  character  which  it  could  never  have 
acquired  under  the  severe  sway  of  the  gothic. 
The  gothic  style,  archaic  at  this  time,  and  mastered 
only  by  patient  endeavour,  was  as  impersonal  as  a 
printer's  slip.  The  Church,  which  had  created  that 
style,  strove  hard  to  maintain  the  traditions  of  the 
art,  but  ruin  had  come  upon  it.  It  survived  for  a 
period  within  certain  cultured  cloisters,  and  was 
still  affected  by  the  connoisseur ;  but,  ceasing  to  be 
esteemed  by  the  many,  it  soon  ceased  to  be 
practised. 

In  the  manuscript  department  of  the  Bibliotheque 
Nationale  specimens  are  preserved  of  the  hand- 
writing of  many  of  the  sovereigns  and  princes  of 
France,  mediaeval  and  of  days  nearer  our  own. 
Even  in  the  middle  ages,  the  education  of  a  French 
prince  who  stood  near  the  throne  was  in  general 
very  scrupulously  attended  to,  and  long  after  the 
dawn  of  the  modern  era  royalty  in  its  infancy  and 
its  teens  was  whipped  as  often  and  as  thoroughly  as 
any  merchant's  son  at  college.  In  the  royal  school- 
room the  art  of  the  pen  was  not  neglected,  and  here 
and  there  it  found  an  apt  exponent.  Jean  II.  (le  Bon) 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         239 

and  his  son  Charles  V.  (le  Sage)  were  both  good 
penmen  in  the  gothic  style ;  of  the  latter  it  is  on 
record  that  not  a  man  of  his  time  in  France  wrote  a 
better  hand.  Brantome  found  so  much  to  admire 
in  the  signature  of  Louis  XL  that  he  reproduced 
it  in  a  manuscript  of  his  own.  Good-hearted  and 
considerate  Louis  XII.,  for  all  his  interest  in  the 
fine  arts,  could  never  master  the  art  of  writing,  and 
his  hand  was  as  illegible  as  that  of  his  second  wife, 
Anne  of  Brittany.  Of  the  gorgeous  Francois  L, 
Pierre  Mathieu  has  said  that  he  could  barely  wield 
a  pen,  and  Voltaire  declared  that  he  could  not  spell ; 
but  the  truth  is  that  he  wrote  rather  elegantly,  and 
was  seldom  at  variance  with  his  spelling-book. 
Henri  II.,  a  lover  of  letters,  wrote  as  good  a  hand 
as  his  sister,  Marguerite  of  Savoy.  The  writing  of 
Francois  II.  is  described  by  M.  Franklin  as  '  un  peu 
enfantine,'  while  that  of  his  Queen,  Marie  Stuart, 
was  *  fort  bonne,'  and,  in  the  opinion  of  experts,  a 
hand  which  betrayed  a  heart  fuller  of  ambition 
than  of  tenderness.  The  calligraphy  of  Charles  IX. 
was  singularly  fine,  neat,  close,  and  upright.  Re- 
membering the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  one 
wonders  whether  it  were  before  or  after  that  event 
that  some  graphologist  unnamed  discovered  in  the 
penmanship  of  this  king  the  expression  of  '  a  great 


240  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

hardness  of  heart.'  Henri  III.  (of  whom,  in  most 
particulars,  the  less  said  the  better)  had  some  gift 
in  speaking  but  very  little  in  writing,  and  to  him 
Voltaire  might  have  applied  with  incontestable 
truth  his  sarcasm  on  the  spelling  of  Francis  I.  It 
would  be  tedious  to  drain  the  list,  but  it  is  well  to 
remark  that  many  of  these  sovereigns,  both  of 
mediaeval  France  and  of  the  France  of  the  Renais- 
sance, were  greatly  the  superiors  in  intellectual 
attainments  of  the  majority  of  their  courtiers  and 
their  arrogant  seigneurs.  Of  the  spelling  in  a  letter 
of  a  Due  de  Guise,  preserved  in  a  volume  of  the 
Conde  '  Memoirs,'  Dulaure  observes  that  it  would  put 
to  the  blush  a  kitchen-maid  of  these  days.  Charles 
de  Cosse,  Count  of  Brissac,  and  a  Marshal  of  France, 
*  could  barely,'  says  the  same  authority,  '  scrawl  on 
paper  the  letters  of  his  name.'  Anne  de  Mont- 
morency, by  birth,  wealth,  and  position  one  of 
the  first  men  of  his  age,  and  Constable  of  France 
under  Francois  I.,  could  neither  write  nor  read. 
Indeed,  while  the  king  was  often  a  scholar,  well 
abreast  of  the  learning  of  his  age,  it  was  as  yet  the 
boast  of  his  nobles  that  they  knew  less  than  the 
peasants  on  their  lands. 

The  seventeenth  century  saw  the  corporation  of 
master-writers  on  their  feet  again.  Their  original 
charter  was  confirmed  in  1615,  and  in  1630  their  rules 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         241 

for  the  examination  of  candidates  were  stiff  enough 
to  necessitate  a  course  of  cramming.  The  examin- 
ation extended  over  three  days.  On  the  first  day, 
the  twenty-four  elders  of  the  corporation  considered 
the  specimens  of  writing  which  the  candidates  had 
submitted  to  them.  On  the  second  day,  about  a 
fortnight  later,  they  interrogated  each  candidate  in 
turn  on  the  principles  and  modes  of  hand-writing, 
and  on  the  art  of  instruction  in  hand-writing. 
There  was  an  interval  of  eight  days  between  the 
second  and  the  third  seance,  when  the  candidate 
was  required  to  prove  his  skill  as  an  expert  in  the 
detection  of  false  signatures, — for  it  was  to  the 
judgment  of  a  master- writer  that  contested  signa- 
tures were  submitted  in  courts  of  law. 

The  examination  passed,  the  licentiate  was  con- 
ducted to  the  CMtelet,  where,  in  the  presence  of  the 
procureur  general,  or  his  deputy,  his  name  was  in- 
scribed on  the  register  of  the  corporation,  and  he 
took  an  oath  never  to  divulge  the  '  arts  and  myster- 
ies '  of  the  craft.  The  statutes  of  the  corporation  of 
writers — a  society  aspiring  to  rank  not  beneath  the 
painters  and  sculptors — were  renewed  by  Louis  XIV., 
in  whose  reign  they  are  viewed  '  en  pleine  prosper- 
ite.'  But  the  old  abuses  of  abbreviation  in  spelling, 
and  the  fantastic  and  futile  ornaments  of  the  writ- 
ing-master were  still  complained  of;  and  scholars 

R 


242  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and  students  were  seeking  a  fixed  and  finite  stand- 
ard. The  Parliament  of  the  day — to  which,  in  its 
leisure  moments,  nothing  came  amiss — took  the 
matter  up  with  a  zest,  and  commissioned  two  fa- 
mous writers,  Barbedor  and  Lebe,  to  furnish  models 
of  what  was  best  in  hand-writing,  for  legal  and  all 
other  uses.  The  two  experts  fulfilled  their  task  so 
well  that  a  decree  of  Parliament,  dated  1633,  en- 
joined that  the  '  alphabets,  characters,  letters,  and 
form  of  writing  set  out  in  these  examples '  should 
be  used  exclusively  in  France,  *  in  the  name  of  the 
community  or  corporation  of  master-writers.'  What 
practical  success  this  enactment  had  no  chronicler 
has  informed  us,  but  the  manuscripts  of  the  period, 
which  may  be  consulted  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nation- 
ale,  seem  to  prove  that  the  full  round  hand  of  our 
own  day,  as  distinguished  from  the  artificial  but 
very  beautiful  style  of  the  Scriptorium,  dates  in 
France  from  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV. 

The  Grand  Monarque,  who  had  had  for  his 
writing-master  the  Lebe  of  calligraphic  note,  pos- 
sessed in  Toussaint-Rose  a  secretary  and  amanuensis 
of  signal  ability.  In  the  market  for  autographs, 
kings'  signatures  rule  high,  but  the  learned  collector 
is  said  to  be  shy  in  the  presence  of  a  reputed  '  Louis 
XIV.,'  for  the  reason  that  Toussaint-Rose  wrote  his 
master's  name  a  trifle  better  than  the  king  himself. 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         213 

He  had  acted  as  secretary  to  that  distinguished 
prison-breaker  Cardinal  de  Retz,  and  to  Cardinal 
Mazarin ;  he  was  not  only  a  fine  penman  but  a  con- 
summate letter-writer ;  and  Saint-Simon  has  hinted 
that  the  choicest  epistles  of  Louis  XIV.  owe  the 
dignity  of  their  style  to  the  literary  skill  of  their 
true  author,  Toussaint-Rose.  But  Louis  himself 
wrote  admirably,  and  experts  in  graphology  are 
still  undecided  whether  he  were  as  selfish  as  his  life 
proclaims  him,  or  as  fine-hearted  as  he  shows  in  his 
handwriting.  To  settle  the  point  it  would  be  neces- 
say  to  call  the  ghost  of  Toussaint-Rose. 

Louis  XIV.  contented  himself  with  writing  well ; 
Louis  XV.  learned  printing  at  the  same  time,  had  a 
little  composing-room  of  his  own,  and  used  to  put 
into  type  some  of  his  Latin  exercises. 

According  to  M.  Franklin,  Richelieu,  Fenelon, 
BufFon  the  naturalist,  and  Beaumarchais  of  '  Figaro,' 
wrote  excellently.  Good  hand- writing,  but  not  of  the 
first  quality,  was  that  of  Scarron,  Diderot,  Voltaire, 
Bossuet,  Racine,  Boileau,  and  Crebillon.  Mediocre 
as  to  their  penmanship  were  Descartes,  Mazarin,  La 
Fontaine,  Corneille,  Moliere,  La  Bruyere,  La  Roche- 
foucauld, and  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau ;  and  the  same 
critic  characterises  as  bad  the  hand-writing  of 
Madame  de  Maintcnon,  Cardinal  de  Retz,  Montes- 
quicn,  Vauvemarques,  and  Marivaux. 

R2 


244  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

In  respect  of  writing  materials  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  the  ink-horn  was  in  universal  use,  and 
scholars  and  men  of  law  carried  it  at  their  girdles  : 
goose-quills,  swan-quills,  and  crow-quills  were  much 
commoner  than  metal  pens,  and  the  steel  pen  was 
little  known  until  the  following  century.  The  dealers 
in  pencils  were  established  on  the  Pont-Neuf.  In- 
diarubber,  as  an  embellishment  of  the  writing-table, 
seems  to  have  been  introduced  only  towards  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Wri ting-paper 
was  of  a  stout  and  heavy  quality,  ladies  liked  it 
perfumed,  and  fashions  in  note-paper  were  con- 
tinually changing.  Racine  writes  to  his  younger 
daughter  three  letters  on  three  different  kinds  of 
paper,  to  let  her  know  how  quickly  the  modes  suc- 
ceed each  other. 

1  The  new  mourning-paper  is  already  out  of  fash- 
ion, as  it  is  now  quite  a  month  old.  The  other  two 
specimens  are  so  much  the  rage  that  it  is  no  longer 
possible  to  buy  them ;  the  ladies  have  emptied  the 
stationers'  shops.  Adieu,  my  dear  child.  My  letters 
are  not  very  long ;  they  are  only  to  show  you  the 
kinds  of  paper  we  are  at  present  using.' 

At  first,  letters  were  merely  folded,  tied  with  silk, 
and  sealed ;  and  the  earliest  form  of  envelope  was 
simply  a  sheet  of  white  paper  in  which  the  missive 
was  enclosed.     Love-letters  in  the  sixteenth  century 


WRITING  AND  WRITING  MATERIALS         245 

were  called  chapons,  in  the  seventeenth  they  became 
pouletSy  a  term  not  yet  out  of  vogue.  Why  should 
a  love-letter  be  called  a  fowl  ?  Because,  says  Le 
Duchat,  it  was  at  one  time  folded  much  as  a  fowl  is 
trussed. 


216 


THE  BAGNE. 
i. 

THE  SUCCESSORS  OF  THE  GALLEY-SLAVE. 

As  evening  began  on  the  highway,  the  quiet  French 
highway,  your  traveller  riding  to  his  friendly  inn 
might  have  drawn  rein  in  some  uneasiness,  catching- 
the  first  notes  of  a  strange  and  dread-inspiring 
chant.  He  pulled  up,  perhaps,  under  the  shelter  of 
an  oak,  not  certain  whether  to  advance  or  to  put  his 
horse's  head  about. 

That  terrible  dirge-like  chant  grew  more  distinct, 
and  now  in  the  intervals  arose  another  sound,  not 
more  grateful  to  the  ear,  the  clank  of  steel  fetters. 

Oh !  oh !  Jean  Pierre,  oh  ! 

Fais  toilette. 
Via,  v'la  le  barbier,  oh  ! 
Oh,  oh,  oh,  Jean  Pierre,  oh ! 

V'la  la  charette. 


THE  BAGNE  247 

The  air  was  unutterably  mournful,  the  words  were 
horrid  in  their  realism.  What  voices  were  these 
urging  Jean  Pierre  to  his  last  toilette,  showing  him 
the  barber-surgeon  come  to  clip  the  hair  from  the 
back  of  the  neck,  and  the  cart  of  the  guillotine 
standing  for  him  at  the  prison  door  ? 

By  the  jangling  of  their  chains  the  singers  were 
proclaimed  before  they  came  in .  sight.  These  were 
the  forgats,  or  convicts,  of  France  marching  to  the 
prison  called  the  bagne,  and  singing  as  they  went 
the  'Chanson  de  la  Veuve  ' — Song  of  the  Widow — 
the  guillotine,  the  widow-maker. 

They  came  on  at  a  slow  and  painful  tramp, 
hundreds  of  them,  men  and  youths,  each  wearing  an 
iron  collar  and  supporting  a  part  of  the  chain  which 
attached  him  by  the  neck  to  the  prisoner  in  front. 
Their  clothes  were  dull  with  dust ;  dust  and  sweat 
had  made  a  glaze  upon  their  faces.  Some  of 
the  younger  ones  wore  a  look  of  terror,  the  effect, 
of  the  dreadful  '  Song  of  the  Widow,'  added  to 
the  wretchedness  of  their  situation.  Others,  old 
forgats,  were  reminded  of  a  guillotining  in  the  bagne, 
when  they  had  knelt  upon  the  ground  in  a  long 
double  row,  bareheaded,  to  see  a  comrade  pass  be- 
tween them  to  the  scaffold,  at  the  foot  of  which 
stood  the  black  coffin-cart,  with  the  skull  and  cross- 
bones  painted  above  the  door. 


248  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

The  armed  guard  marching  on  either  side  of  the 
vast  chain  of  the  condemned  had  heard  that  chant 
of  the  '  widow-maker '  many  times,  but  none  ever 
listened  unmoved  to  those  fearsome  words,  that  air 
of  incommunicable  sadness. 

Some  of  the  prisoners  had  tears  streaming  down 
their  faces,  faces  on  which  crime  or  evil  fortune  had 
written  such  'strange  defeatures.'  In  others  that 
hymn  of  the  scaffold  seemed  to  kindle  afresh  the 
passions  which  had  riveted  on  their  necks  the  steel 
collar  of  the  forgat.  Here  and  there  in  haggard 
eyes  which  were  never  uplifted  burned  the  slow  fires 
of  remorse. 

Ah!  Ah!  Ah! 
Faucher  colas. 

The  chant  ends  with  the  falling  of  the  blade. 

On  and  on  at  a  heavy  pace  went  the  long  cohort 
of  the  chain,  and  each  man  knew  that  every  step  he 
took  brought  him  nearer  to  the  place  where  his 
miseries  would  not  finish  but  begin.  At  the  end  of 
the  march  was  the  bagne.  For  the  new-made  forgat 
the  name  was  an  epitome  of  all  the  terrors  the 
imagination  could  conceive. 

Would  not  the  traveller  whose  progress  this  piteous 
pageant  had  arrested  spur  forward  to  the  shelter  of 
his  inn,  and  call  quickly  for  a  flagon  of  warm  red 
wine? 


THE  BAGNE  249 

H. 

But  leave  the  gentleman  to  dispel  the  picture  with 
his  wine,  and  follow  the  chain  in  its  miserable  pro- 
cession through  France,  the  France  of  the  early  days 
of  our  own  century  of  grace. 

When  night  fell,  with  its  chances  of  slipping  from 
the  gang  into  cover  of  ditch  or  thicket,  a  halt  was 
called.  There  were  fixed  etapes  or  stages  for  each 
day,  and  sheds  and  barns  were  requisitioned  for  the 
night's  lodging.  If  the  regular  ration  of  meat  were 
not  forthcoming,  it  was  a  struggle  to  have  the  hand 
first  in  the  common  mess-tub  of  beans  and  cabbage. 
The  warder's  whistle  blew  the  signal  for  rest,  and, 
fettered  and  galled,  you  threw  yourself  into  the 
straw. 

At  daybreak  the  whistle  blew  again.  There  was 
no  dressing  to  be  done,  for  no  one  had  changed  his 
clothes,  and  no  washing,  there  was  no  water  to  wash 
with  ;  but  the  smell  of  the  air,  how  sweet  it  was 
when  the  doors  of  the  straw-shed  were  unbarred  ! 
The  march  was  taken  up  once  more. 

Here  came  a  little  town,  just  turning  out  for  the 
business  of  the  day — shop,  warehouse,  or  meadow 
beyond.  The  rattle  of  the  fetters  is  heard.  ■  Via 
les  forcats !'  The  *  lags '  are  coming !  The  town 
rushes  out  pell-mell,  feasts  itself  with  that  gruesome 


260  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

sight,  howls  imprecations,  which  the  chain  is  not 
slow  to  give  back. 

Sometimes  it  was  different.  The  towns-folk  or 
the  peasants  were  ready  with  gifts  of  fresh  fruit, 
vegetables,  bread,  wine,  cider ;  and  the  chain  knew 
how  to  thank  them  for  these  sympathies.  In  general, 
however,  when  a  town  or  village  was  passed  on  the 
stage,  it  was  a  battle  of  oaths  and  obscenities  be-1 
tween  the  free  people  and  the  forgats. 

At  intervals  along  the  march,  the  whole  gang 
were  turned  into  a  field,  stripped  to  the  skin, 
and  searched.  Weather  made  no  difference  in  the 
orders  of  the  day ;  it  was  trudge,  trudge,  trudge,  in 
sun  or  rain ;  and  sometimes  a  day's  pilgrimage  gave 
taste  of  three  or  four  different  climates.  One  might 
be  burned  red  by  midday,  and  lie  down  in  the 
straw  at  night  soaked  to  the  skin.  The  doctor's 
functions  on  the  march  were  not  nominal. 

It  went  on  drearily,  one  day  and  another  ;  ever  so 
many  days.  The  chain  twitching  at  the  collar — old 
forgats,  fettered  together,  had  the  knack  of  easing 
the  pain — grazed  and  worried  the  neck  ceaselessly. 
There  was  no  help,  unless  one  fell  by  the  way.  It 
is  not  easy  to  conjure  up  in  fancy  the  sufferings  of 
the  home-bred  forgot,  or  the  decent  victim  of  con- 
spiracy, or  the  prosperous  lottery-swindler  or  bank- 


THE  BAGNE  251 

breaker,  or  the  government  contractor,  or  the  easy 
and  half-unconscious  partner  in  some  social  crime,, 
suddenly  smitten  by  the  law,  severed  from  home  and 
family,  and  thrust  into  that  hideous  company  of  the 
chain.  There  were  some  who  went  mad  on  the 
route  between  Paris  and  the  bagne. 

At  certain  stages,  lengths  were  added  to  the  chain.. 
The  provincial  courts  sent  out  their  drafts  to  meet 
the  main  contingent  from  Paris.  As  the  chain 
increased  in  length  it  increased  in  criminal  and 
psychological  interest ;  and  towards  the  end  of  the 
closing  stage  it  linked  together  examples  of  every 
offence  that  the  law  had  cognisance  of.  Thieves, 
robbers,  and  house-breakers  made  the  largest  cate- 
gory. Murderers,  in  a  greatly  less  numerous  class, 
figured  second  on  the  list ;  and  it  dwindled  down 
from  the  poisoners  (the  art  of  poison  flourished  ra- 
ther poorly  at  that  epoch)  parricides<  the  perjurers, 
the  bigamists,  and  the  curiously  small  tail  of  politi- 
cal offenders.  I  have  omitted  the  forgers,  coiners, 
incendiaries,  blackmailers,  and  defaulters  in  public 
offices ;  but  it  will  be  seen  that  the  catalogue  em- 
braced male  society  at  large.  The  '  flying  chain '  of 
the  formats  on  the  march  tethered  one  and  all. 

At  the  walls  of  Brest,  Toulon,  or  Rochefort,  the 
march  ended. 


252  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

III. 

WHAT  was  the  bagne  ?* 

It  represented  the  penal  system  which  had  super- 
seded the  punishment  of  the  galleys.  The  galerien, 
or  galley  slave,  ceasing  to  be  employed  at  the  oar, 
or  but  very  rarely  employed  there,  became  the  for- 
mat, which  term  is  the  equivalent  of  our  convict. 
There  were  three  great  bagnes  in  France.  That  of 
Toulon  was  built  in  1 748  ;  in  the  following  year  the 
bagne  at  Brest  was  erected  by  convict  labour;  and, 
sixteen  years  later,  the  bagne  of  Rochefort  was  con- 
structed. These  prisons  were  under  the  control  of 
the  Ministry  of  Marine  (which  to  this  day  has  the 
control  of  transportation),  and  towards  the  middle 
of  the  present  century  they  held  a  population  of 
nearly  eight  thousand. 

Footsore  and  sick  and  stained  with  many  weathers 
the  company  of  felons  at  length  passed  through  the 
gates  of  the  bagne.  The  free  world  was  fairly  be- 
hind them  now.  They  saw  and  felt  defiant  walls 
around  them  ;  great  doors  were  unbarred  for  them  ; 

♦The  name  seems  to  be  of  rather  doubtful  origin : — Ital.  bagno, 
Fr.  bain,  bath ;  i.e.,  the  bath  of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople 
was  in  the  first  instance  a  prison  of  this  nature.  Or,  as  others 
have  it,  the  prison  adjoined  the  bath.  The  French  bagnes  were 
sometimes  known  as  jpriso7is  muuillces,  floating  prisons,  because 
the  prisoners  had  once  been  lodged  in  hulks. 


THE  BAGNE  253 

iron  gratings  smote  them   with,  a  sense  of  hope- 
lessness. 

They  saw  the  strong  bodies  of  guards  and  warders 
— some  with  sabre  and  rifle,  others  with  rods — who 
were  to  be  their  taskmasters  in  this  grey -abode. 

They  saw  swarms  of  felons  coming  and  going  in 
the  grotesque  and  flaming  livery  of  the  bagne. 

This  was  the  manner  of  their  reception  on  arrival. 
They  were  first  passed  in  review  by  the  governor  and 
chief  officers  of  the  prison,  by  the  principal  surgeon, 
and  by  the  head  of  the  police,  who  assured  himself 
of  each  man's  identity.  They  were  then  sent  for  a 
sorely  needed  bath,  and  the  clothes  which  they  put 
off  for  their  ablutions  were  exchanged  for  the  cos- 
tume of  the  bagne.  This  was  a  loose  red  jacket,  a 
sleeveless  waistcoat  of  the  same  colour  or  of  yellow, 
trousers  of  dark  yellow  or  drab,  buttoning  down  the 
leg,  a  shirt  of  coarse  calico,  and  a  woollen  cap  in 
shape  like  the  Republican  cap  of  liberty.  The 
colour  of  the  cap  indicated  to  some  extent  the  sta- 
tus of  the  wearer.  The  bonnet  rouge,  or  red  cap,  told 
that  he  was  condemned  a  temp*,  that  is  to  say  for  a 
period  of  years,  few  or  many.  The  dreaded  bonnet 
vert,  the  green  cap,  was  the  badge  of  servitude  a 
perpetuitt — for  life !  Jacket  and  trousers  were 
stamped  with  the  T.  F.  (travaux  force's,  hard  labour). 

Now,  then,  the  habit  of  the  new-comer  is  complete. 


254  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Not  so ;  lie  has  yet  to  receive  his  irons.  The  collar 
which  he  wore  on  the  march  has  been  put  off,  but 
an  anklet  of  steel  must  replace  it.  He  is  taken  to  a 
courtyard  where  a  convict  smith,  with  anvil,  hammer, 
and  an  assortment  of  fetters,  awaits  him.  He  lies 
face  down-wards,  and  a  convict  assistant  bends  his 
leg  and  raises  his  foot  to  the  anvil.  The  ring  is 
bolted  on  the  ankle,  and  to  this  is  riveted  a  chain, 
one  end  of  which  is  attached  to  a  leathern  waistbelt. 

Now,  it  would  be  no  mean  portion  of  one's  punish- 
ment to  sustain,  night  and  day  for  years,  the  degrad- 
ing burden  of  the  fetters,  but  the  degradation  yet 
lacked  something. 

The  forgot  must  not  alone  be  chained  ;  he  must,  in 
addition,  be  chained  to  another  forgot.  In  certain 
circumstances  this  must  have  been  the  worst  and  most 
torturing  penalty  of  all.  For  the  new-comer  could 
make  no  choice  of  a  companion  for  his  chain.  The 
choice  was  made  hap-hazard,  and  in  general  without 
the  least  consideration,  by  the  officer  who  presided 
over  the  ironing.  '  Your  name's  Legrand,  is  it  ? 
Next  man  in  the  line  whose  name  begins  with  L,' 
and  so  on.  As  a  result,  the  most  bizarre  and  repul- 
sive couplings.  There  were,  it  is  true,  many  affec- 
tionate companionships  of  the  chain  ;  but  there  were 
many  more  which  inflicted  an  eternity  of  suffering 
upon  one  of  the  pair.     Even  in  slavery,  where  there 


THE  BAGNE  255 

are  two  in  perpetual  association,  one  will  be  master ; 
and  thus  it  was  with  the  bond-slaves  of  the  bagne. 

It  was  by  no  means  impossible  for  a  man  of  breed- 
ing and  refinement,  choice  and  gentle  in  word  and 
manner,  to  drag  his  chain  at  the  heel  of  a  truculent 
assassin,  a  brutal  robber,  or  a  gigantic  negro  who 
was  continually  coming  under  the  lash  for  insubor- 
dination. That  was  an  anxious  moment  when  the 
accouplement  was  made,  and  the  two  partners  of  the 
chain  first  scanned  one  another. 

Three  days  of  repose  were  allowed  to  the  new 
arrivals — '  repose,'  fettered  to  the  wooden  guard-bed 
of  the  bagne,  in  a  huge  chamber  shared  by  some  five 
or  six  hundred  condemned  ones,  and  patrolled  day 
and  night  by  warders. 


IV 

At  five  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  if  it  were 
summer,  at  six  in  winter,  the  Diane  sounded  the 
turn-out,  and  the  new  hand  fell  in  with  his  gang. 
The  life  of  the  bagne  had  begun  for  him. 

Suspicion  is  the  note  of  prison  rule,  and  in  prisons 
like  the  bagnes,  where  most  minds  brooded  on  escape, 
suspicion  was  a  virtue.  What  format  had  been  tam- 
pering with  his  chain  or  ankle-ring  in  the  night? 
This  was  the  first  question  in  the  governor's  mind  in 


256  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  morning,  and  there  was  a  warder  whose  -special 
duty  it  was  to  furnish  a  practical  answer  by  demon- 
stration. 

As  he  descended  into  the  courtyard  from  the  great 
sleeping  chamber,  each  convict  presented  his  fettered 
ankle  to  this  functionary,  who  tapped  the  ring  and 
chain  with  a  hammer.  His  trained  ear  told  him  in 
an  instant,  by  the  sound  which  the  metal  gave  out, 
whether  file  or  saw  had  been  at  work  on  it  since  the 
previous  morning. 

The  labour  of  the  day  for  the  forgat  depended  on 
the  class  which  had  been  assigned  him.  If  of  average 
physical  capacity,  he  was  likely  to  be  put  first  to  the 
grande  fatigue,  answering  to  the  hard  labour  of  the 
convict  employed  on  public  works  at  Portland  or 
Dartmoor ;  but  very  often  a  task  of  much  greater 
severity.  He  might  be  sawing  timber,  hauling  great 
blocks  of  stone,  piling  shot,  excavating,  cleansing 
docks,  building,  quarrying.  The  varied  works  of 
dock,  harbour,  and  arsenal — along  with  other  em- 
ployment more  drily  penal — engaged  the  prisoner  of 
the  bagne  to  whom  the  grande  fatigue  was  allotted. 
Sudden  changes  of  temperature  increased  the  pains 
of  the  task.  Thus,  during  the  ten  hours  of  daily 
labour  (the  English  convict  works  only  seven),  the 
forcat  might  be  exposed  in  turns  to  the  action  of  a 
burning  sun,  to  humid  airs,  to  glacial  rains,  to  biting 


THE  BAGNE  257 

winds  aud  penetrating  fogs.  The  locality  of  the 
bagne  made  all  the  difference  in  this  respect. 

The  raw  beginner  had  his  apprenticeship  to  go 
through,  and  it  was  more  bitter,  or  not  quite  so  bitter, 
according  to  the  character  of  his  chain  companion. 
He  had  to  learn  to  walk  and  work  in  a  steel  tether 
just  nine  feet  long,  four  and  a  half  feet  of  which 
belonged  to  another  man.  He  had  to  swing  his 
pick  without  danger  to  his  comrade,  and  to  avoid 
the  danger  of  the  other  pick — and  he  might  be 
quite  unused  to  physical  labour  of  any  kind.  If 
the  brother  of  the  chain  (supposing  him  an  old  hand) 
did  not  choose  to  help  the  'prentice,  it  was  liable  to 
be  awkward  for  both,  but  it  was  almost  certain  to 
be  awkward  for  the  'prentice.  In  the  hauling  of 
weights  of  stone  up  a  steep  incline,  so  many  formats 
harnessed  like  beasts  to  the  cart,  no  individual 
could  shirk  his  share  of  the  pulling  without  being 
observed  by  the  others ;  and  if  he  made  a  slip  he 
brought  a  risk  upon  the  whole  trace. 

In  this  event,  on  the  return  journey,  the  weakling 
or  the  shifty  member  of  the  party  seldom  escaped 
the  vengeance,  individual  or  collective,  which  the 
bagne  so  well  knew  how  to  wreak,  unnoticed  by  the 
warder  in  charge. 

In  the  stacking  of  timber,  a  pile,  awkwardly 
built,  was  in  danger  of  toppling.     The  warning  was 

S 


258  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

given,  two  partners  of  a  common  chain  pulled  oppo- 
site ways,  and  one — it  was  always,  of  course,  the 
feebler  of  the  pair  for  whom  the  grave  had  to  be 
dug.  These  accidents  might  be  accidental,  but 
rather  often  they  were  not.  Yet  there  were  instances 
of  quite  another  sort.  It  was  not  uncommon  for 
the  habitual  criminal,  linked  with  a  delicate  first 
offender,  to  take  him  under  his  wing,  shield  him 
from  the  gibes  of  the  gang,  and  do  all  his  work  for 
him  during  the  first  weeks  of  his  sojourn  in  the 
bagne. 

There  were  critics  of  the  bagnes  in  the  Chamber 
and  on  the  press,  who  maintained  that  the  grande 
fatigue  was  a  farce,  and  that  no  work  was  done. 
But  access  to  these  prisons — or,  at  least,  to  the 
actual  scenes  of  labour — was  even  more  difficult 
than  it  is  to  an  English  prison  to-day,  which,  I  need 
scarcely  say,  is  not  open  to  the  first  caller.  Few 
persons  capable  of  recording  their  impressions  had 
ever  seen  the  interior  of  a  French  bagne.  It  would 
have  been  a  juster  criticism  that  the  grande  fatigue 
was  of  comparatively  little  worth  to  anybody.  It 
was  seldom  so  directed  as  to  train  the  forcat  to  a 
habit  of  industry — the  aim  of  the  modern  penal 
system  in  most  European  countries,  and  certainly  in 
ours — but,  when  rigidly  applied,  and  this  depended 
a  good  deal  upon  a  very  callous  system  of  overseer- 


THE  BAGNE  259 

ship,  it  took  the  physical  utmost  out  of  the  convict. 
He  slept  awhile  in  the  sun  at  noon,  or  walked  if  the 
chance  of  the  cards  went  against  him.  It  was  not 
unusual,  when  one  partner  of  the  chain  wanted  to 
sleep  and  the  other  to  stroll,  to  settle  the  difference 
over  a  game  of  cards — a  forbidden  luxury  which  a 
1  soft '  warder  winked  at.  One  partner  played  the 
other  for  his  half  of  the  chain. 

At  the  night  whistle  the  several  gangs  were 
marched  back  to  the  bagne.  Each  man  got  what  he 
could  out  of  the  gamelle,  or  mess-tub,  and  took  his 
place  on  the  plank  bed,  a  long  bench  running  from 
end  to  end  of  the  dormitory.  No  pillow  eased  his 
head,  no  mattress  his  limbs ;  his  chain  was  locked  to 
a  ring  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ;  and  hot,  wet,  or  cold, 
he  never  put  off  his  clothes.  The  aspect  of  the 
bagne  at  night,  under  the  flicker  of  the  lamp,  was 
that  of  an  extended  Morgue. 

V. 

The  bagne  had  its  own  penal  code.  It  was  death  by 
the  guillotine  to  strike  an  officer,  to  kill  a  comrade, 
or  to  incite  the  chiourme  (the  general  body  of  con- 
victs) to  revolt.  Not  seldom  death  on  the  soaffold 
was  a  form  of  suicide  peculiar  to  the  prisoner  of  the 
bagne.     'I'm  sick  of  life!' — 'je  m'ennuie  de  vivre  I' 

S2 


260  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

— and  the  weary  wretch  took  another's  life  to  end 
his  own.  Sometimes  it  was  an  agreement  between 
two  companions  of  the  chain ;  one  slew  the  other, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  he  guillotined. 

The  escaped  convict  a  temps,  brought  back  to  the 
bagne,  received  an  addition  of  three  years  to  his 
original  sentence.  If  a  life-sentence  man,  he  was 
punished  with  three  years  of  the  '  double-chain.' 
Sentence  of  the  double-chain  meant  confinement 
night  and  day,  attached  to  a  wooden  form,  in  a 
large  hall  in  which  some  hundreds  of  other  unfortu- 
nates were  undergoing  the  same  cruel  penalty ; 
guarded  incessantly,  and  freed  only  at  rare  intervals 
for  a  scant  period  of  exercise  in  the  open  air. 

But  by  far  the  commonest  punishment  was  flog- 
ging, or  the  bastonnade.  The  correcteur,  or  flogger, 
was  invariably  a  convict  who  owed  his  office  to  the 
strength  of  his  biceps  and  the  pleasure  he  derived 
from  wielding  the  whip.  He  laid  on  to  the  naked 
back  and  shoulders  of  his  victim  from  ten  to  a 
hundred  strokes  with  a  one-tailed  '  cat '  of  plaited 
cord,  very  thick  in  the  middle,  and  stiffened  in  coal- 
tar.  The  hatred  in  which  the  convict  executioners 
were  held  by  the  rest  of  the  chiourme  is  easily 
imagined.  The  gusto  they  had  for  their  work, 
arising  in  a  deep-seated  sanguinary  instinct,  was 
stimulated  by  the  small  gratuities  paid  them  by  the 


THE  BAGNE  261 

administration,  and  by  extra  rations.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  lodge  them  together  in  a  separate  part  of 
the  prison,  for  their  lives  were  always  in  danger, 
and  most  of  them  carried  the  cicatrices  of  wounds 
inflicted  by  those  of  their  comrades  who  had  received 
the  hastonnade.  One  of  these  ferocious  creatures 
might  be  seen  in  the  evening,  towards  the  hour 
at  which  his  victims  were  delivered  to  him,  watch- 
ing like  an  animal  of  prey  the  door  by  which  they 
were  led  in. 

The  convicts  made  one  exception,  and  one  only, 
in  favour  of  the  correcteur.  It  was  when  the  office 
was  bestowed  upon  one  of  their  number  who  had 
fulfilled  a  similar  function  before  being  sent  to  the 
bagne.  They  considered  it  not  improper  that  he 
should  continue  to  exercise  in  misfortune  the  calling 
he  had  lived  by  when  in  freedom. 

VI. 

*  Les  formats,  tels  coupables  qu'ils  soient,  sont  bien 
malheureux.' — •  Let  the  formats  be  as  guilty  as  they 
may,  they  have  a  pretty  evil  time  of  it.'  These 
were  the  words  of  an  officer  who  had  held  one  of 
the  highest  posts  in  the  French  prison  service. 

It  was  great  luck  to  get  into  hospital  for  a  while, 
if  only  to  escape  the  eternal  mess  of  bean-broth, 


262  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

brown  bread,  a  little  olive  oil  or  rancid  butter,  and 
biscuit  which  the  navy  had  rejected.  Some  trifling 
extras  in  food  and  drink  might  be  bought  at  the 
canteen  of  the  bagne,  but  in  quantities  such  as 
none  but  the  convicts  themselves  would  appreciate. 

Nevertheless,  there  were  degrees  in  the  pains  of 
these  unfortunates.  Like  Dante's,  the  Inferno  of 
the  bagne  had  its  lower  and  its  higher  circles. 
From  toiling  in  the  open  air  under  an  ardent  or 
inclement  sky,  the  convict  of  approved  behaviour 
might  pass  in  time  to  the  covered  workshops,  where 
the  petite,  as  opposed  to  the  grande  fatigue,  offered 
a  large  amelioration  of  his  lot.  Here  he  joined, 
along  with  other  good-conduct  prisoners,  the  infirm 
and  sickly  of  the  flock  who  could  not  be  employed 
at  the  rude  tasks  of  the  outdoor  gangs.  The  first 
great  boon  accorded  here  was  the  releasing  him 
from  his  companion  of  the  chain.  He  was  promoted 
to  the  honours  of  the  '  half-chain,'  wearing  some 
three  or  four  links  attached  to  the  anklet,  the  last 
of  which  could  be  fastened  to  the  waist-belt.  Then, 
his  work  brought  him  some  slender  recompense  in 
wages,  a  portion  of  which,  if  he  were  destined  to 
be  sent  again  into  the  world,  was  put  by  against 
his  day  of  liberation.  The  life-term  man  received 
his  small  wage  in  full. 


THE  BAGNE  263 

There  were  other  gains,  and  notably  some  free- 
dom of  choice  in  labour.  It  is  not  work  which 
kills  in  prison,  but  monotony.  If  not  excessive  in 
quantity,  the  daily  task  of  the  convict,  the  necessity 
of  using  his  muscles  regularly,  so  many  hours  per 
day,  keeps  him  in  physical  health.  The  man  going 
out  of  an  indolent  world  into  the  ordered  sphere  of 
compulsory  toil  in  prison,  '  puts  on '  flesh  and  weight 
if  he  is  decently  cared  for.  But  there  is  the  risk 
that  the  changeless  routine  may  lower  or  impair  his 
intellectual  parts.  The  prisoner  admitted  to  the 
sallcs  d'epreuve,  the  probationers'  or  good-conduct 
rooms  of  the  bagne,  became  to  a  small  extent  a  free 
agent  in  his  choice  of  work,  and  a  fair  latitude  was 
allowed  him  to  do  little  jobs  on  his  own  account. 
He  had  time  of  his  own,  and  could  use  it  to  plait 
things  in  straw,  or  carve  things  in  wood  or  cocoa- 
nut,  or  make  little  churches  or  models  of  the  bagne 
in  pasteboard,  which  were  sold  for  him  to  visitors  in 
the  bazaar  against  the  gate.  If  he  remained  a 
rogue  in  the  salle  d'epreuve,  he  found  opportunity  to 
coin  money,  or  to  forge  passports  for  himself  or  a 
friend,  for  use  in  the  event  of  an  escape. 

A  coveted  berth  was  that  of  payole,  or  scribe  for 
the  unlettered  lags.  This  was  only  to  be  secured  in 
the  salle  d'ipreuve.     It  was  an  office  which  brought 


264  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

perquisites  to  the  letter-writer,  and  gained  him  of 
necessity  many  of  the  secrets  of  his  clients,  which, 
at  a  pinch,  he  might  turn  to  his  own  advantage. 
There  is  not  an  angle  from  which  this  uniquely 
tragic  scene  of  the  human  comedy  may  be  viewed 
which  does  not  show  up  some  baseness  attempted 
or  practised  on  one  another  by  these  unhappy  crea- 
tures, who,  dead  to  the  law,  came  to  kill  in  them- 
selves every  sense  of  justice  and  of  honour.  '  Le 
bagne  est  une  pepiniere  de  monstres ' — '  The  bagne 
is  a  nursery  of  monsters ' — was  said  of  it  a  few  years 
before  its  abolition,  in  1852,  by  those  best  able  to 
speak  of  the  actual  results  of  the  system. 

There  was  an  ironic  humour  in  some  of  the  ano- 
malies of  the  administration.  At  one  epoch,  certain 
favoured  formats  lived  in  the  bagne*  much  as  it  pleased 
them.  '  Gentlemen '  with  means  were  allowed  to  hire 
themselves  out  as  grooms,  valets,  tutors,  or  dancing 
masters.  Some  were  followed  to  the  town 
where  the  bagne  lay  by  their  wives  and  families  (as 
the  well-to-do  British  felon  was  accompanied  by 
wife  or  mistress  to  Botany  Bay),  and  went  out  to 
spend  the  day  with  them,  dressed  in  the  fashion,  and 
hiding  under  the  trouser-leg  the  steel  anklet  which 
was  the  sole  betrayer  of  their  disgrace.  They  re- 
turned to  the  bagne  at  night,  to  a  snug  alcove  par- 
titioned from  the  common  sleeping  chamber,  where 


THE  BAGNE  265 

the  ckiourme  lay  fettered  in  sweaty  clothes  on  a  bare 
board. 


VII. 

France,  in  most  things  so  receptive  of  ideas,  has 
been  a  tardy  reformer  of  prisons,  and  is  backward 
in  the  matter  at  this  day.  Some  three  or  four  nota- 
ble governors  excepted,  the  administrators  of  the 
bagnes  held  to  the  old  notion  that  it  was  more  impor- 
tant to  punish  than  to  cure  the  criminal.  It  would 
be  fairer  to  say  that  the  new  idea  that  the  criminal 
could  be  cured  had  not  yet  taken  root  in  France.  To 
the  governor  of  the  bagne  his  '  convicts '  were  still 
the  '  galley-slaves '  whom  he  had  whipped  half- 
naked  at  the  oar  from  which  nothing  but  death  or 
utter  sickness  ever  released  them.  It  was  not  in  his 
bond  to  bring  into  the  ways  of  virtue  the  criminals 
whom  the  law  had  handed  over  to  him  to  use  as 
'  mechanical  motors,'  or  beasts  of  burden  ;  or  even 
to  guide  their  labour  in  such  a  way  as  to  teach  them 
how  to  work  for  themselves  when  they  had  passed 
out  of  his  keeping.  In  general  he  made  it  a  point 
of  honour  to  leave  his  bagne  to  his  successor  in  the 
precise  condition  in  which  it  had  been  left  to  him. 
His  intercourse  with  his  brother  governors  was  con- 
fined to  an  occasional  interchange  of  prisoners,  as  a 


266  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

present,  much  as  the  American  slave-owner  made  a 
gift  of  a  'useful  boy'  to  a  neighbour  or  a  new  colon- 
ist. Rarely,  a  prison  chaplain  of  an  intelligent  and 
benevolent  force  not  common  in  that  service,  de- 
voted himself  wholly  to  softening  and  elevating  the 
lot  of  his  •  miserables ;  and  often  with  grand  effect. 


267 


THE  BAGNE. 
ii. 

the  forq.at  as  prison-breaker. 

Nearly  all  the  great  escapes  of  bygone  days  were 
favoured  by  conditions  and  circumstances  which 
have  absolutely  ceased  to  be.  What  prisoner  nowa- 
days is  left  a  week  or  more  unvisited  in  his  cell,  with 
ample  leisure  to  dig  his  tunnel  underground  or  his 
passage  through  the  wall  ?  In  the  exciting  account 
of  an  escape  from  Portland,  in  his  novel  ■  Broken 
Bonds,'  the  late  Major  Hawley  Smart  shows  the 
prisoner  conveying  into  his  cell  an  iron  hook  to  be 
used  in  grappling  a  wall.  Now  hooks,  files,  saws,  and 
other  implements  handy  in  an  escape  were  often 
smuggled  in  pie-dishes  into  the  cells  of  French  and 
German  prisons  in  the  last  century,  and  thereby 
hung  the  tale  of  many  a  notable  evasion.      But  the 


268  AN  IDLjER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

convict  at  Portland  does  not  eat  pie,  and  a  grap- 
pling-iron could  not  well  be  conveyed  to  him  in  a 
six-ounce  loaf.  Major  Hawley  Smart  describes  tliis 
instrument  as  indispensable  to  the  success  of  the 
attempt,  but  he  omits  to  say  by  what  means  the 
prisoner  got  it  into  his  cell;  and  at  that  point 
accordingly  a  very  interesting  narrative  ceases  to 
be  credible. 

In  the  modern  convict  prison,  every  prisoner  is 
searched  before  he  enters  his  cell  for  meals  and  when 
he  leaves  it  for  work ;  during  every  hour  of  the  day 
he  is  under  the  eyes  of  his  guards ;  and  he  cannot 
screen  himself  from  observation  after  he  is  locked  in 
for  the  night.  Now  and  again,  aided  by  some  ex- 
traordinary chance,  or  thanks  to  an  heroic  combina- 
tion of  patience,  skill,  and  daring,  a  prisoner  does 
make  his  escape  even  from  such  a  place  as  Portland  ; 
but  the  attempts  are  few,  and  the  suocesses  very 
few  indeed ;  whereas  prison-breaking  was  an  art 
which  had  hundreds  of  successful  practitioners  in 
the  days  when  the  modern  system  was  not  thought 
of. 

Famous  amongst  the  feats  of  their  kind  are  many 
of  the  flights  accomplished  from  the  bagnes,  the  con- 
vict prisons  of  France,  which  superseded  in  1748  the 
old  punishment  of  the  galleys.  From  many  points 
of  view  this  is  the  most  interesting  chapter  in  the 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  269 

varied  history  of  prison-breaking.  There  were  ex- 
ceptional opportunities,  but  there  were  also  very 
exceptional  hindrances.  The  forqat  working  in  dock 
or  arsenal  at  Toulon,  Brest,  or  Rochefort,  with  free 
labourers  all  around  him,  had  a  better  chance  than 
falls  to  the  convict  of  our  day,  who  is  hardly  ever 
associated  with  hired  workmen.  Where  convicts 
and  hired  workmen  are  engaged  on  the  same  task, 
and  enclosed  within  the  same  walls,  the  convict  has 
always  the  possibility  at  least  of  effecting  a  disguise, 
and  passing  through  the  gates  unchallenged.  A 
dockyard,  too,  offers  a  hundred  means  of  concealment 
which  are  wanting  in  the  naked  quarries  of  Portland 
or  on  the  bogs  of  Dartmoor.  Again,  the  garde- 
chiourme,  or  warder,  of  the  bagne,  tyrant  and  slave- 
driver  as  he  was,  had  a  palm  much  easier  to  grease 
than  any  warder's  in  the  prison  service  of  these  days. 
One  would  not  say  or  suppose  that  no  warder  had 
his  price  to-day ;  but  every  warder  had  his  price 
then.  In  a  word,  the  escape,  or  the  attempt  to  escape, 
was  a  recognised  and  familiar  feature  of  life  in  the 
bagne  ;  it  was  of  weekly  if  not  of  daily  occurrence, 
and  there  wore  facilities  which  are  not  now  to  be 
reckoned  on. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  obstacles  were  rather  stiff. 
The  venal  warder  who  took  the  bribe  of  the  forqat 
to  assist  his  escape  was  fully  capable  of  selling  him 


270  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

afterwards  to  the  authorities,  thus  pocketing  two 
prices.  The  reward  or  prime  paid  by  the  Government 
varied  according  to  the  locality  in  which  the  prisoner 
was  taken.  If  he  were  seized  within  the  docks  or 
arsenal,  it  was  twenty-five  francs  ;  if  in  the  town  in 
which  the  bagne  was  situated,  fifty  francs  ;  and  one 
hundred  if  the  convict  were  apprehended  at  any 
greater  distance. 

Every  free  citizen — garde-chiourme,  soldier,  sailor, 
boatman,  townsman,  or  peasant — was  more  or  less 
on  the  alert  to  secure  the  prime  when  the  cannon 
gave  warning  of  an  escape ;  so  the  prudent  convict 
meditating  flight  bethought  him  first  of  a  change  of 
costume.  The  livery  of  the  bagne — green  woollen  cap 
for  a  life  sentence,  red  for  a  shorter  term,  a  red  or 
pink  'slop'  and  yellow  vest,  with  trousers  of  a  light 
drab,  buttoned  down  the  legs,  and  stamped  with  the 
letters  T.  F.  for  travaux  force's — was  not  exactly  the 
attire  in  which  to  walk  unobserved ;  and  the  disguise, 
to  be  effective,  had  to  be  as  complete  as  possible. 

There  was  another  and  a  worse  impediment.  It 
was  a  terrible  part  of  the  punishment  of  the  bagne 
that  every  forgat  was  chained  by  the  leg  to  a  brother 
in  captivity.  This  awful  companionship  was  per- 
petual ;  the  condemned  pairs  were  bound  together 
through  every  hour  of  the  day,  let  their  task  be 
what   it   might,  and   sustained   their  irons  on   the 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  271 

wooden  bench  on  which,  without  changing  their 
clothes,  they  lay  down  to  sleep  at  night.  This  made 
a  serious  difficulty  in  cases  where  one  of  the  pair 
was  bent  upon  a  flight  which  his  comrade  was  un- 
willing to  share.  In  suoh  an  event,  the  adventurer 
ran  the  risk  of  an  immediate  betrayal.  Experience 
taught  the  old  gaUrien  or  forqat  that  it  was  safer  to 
dispense  with  an  accomplice,  and  in  working  out  his 
soheme  alone  he  needed  all  his  diplomacy  to  lull  the 
suspicions  of  his  companion  of  the  chain. 

Then  the  irons  were  sounded  every  morning.  As 
the  gangs  were  marched  out  of  the  bagne  to  then- 
work,  each  forqat,  on  entering  the  courtyard  from 
the  sleeping  hall,  presented  his  fettered  ankle  to  a 
warder  with  a  mallet,  who  tapped  the  steel  ring  and 
the  links  of  the  chain.  Practice  had  given  the  func- 
tionary so  nice  an  ear  that  the  prisoner  who  had 
been  stealthily  notching  his  fetters  with  file  or  saw 
during  the  night  must  have  quaked  as  he  offered 
them  to  the  test  of  the  mallet  in  the  morning. 

Again,  the  penalties  of  failure  in  this  difficult  and 
dangerous  emprise  were  quite  severe  enough  to  deter 
the  weaker  brethren.  The  prisoner  condemned  a 
temps,  that  is  to  say,  for  any  period  less  than  life,  if 
taken  in  the  act  of  escaping,  underwent  the  baston- 
nade,  a  flogging  with  a  whip  of  which  the  single 
lash  was  of  plaited  cord,  thick  in  the  middle  and 


272  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

tapering  towards  the  end,  steeped  in  vinegar  and 
stiffened  in  coal-tar.  From  ten  to  a  hundred  blows 
were  laid  on  by  a  convict  correcteur,  appointed  to 
this  office  for  the  strength  of  his  arm  and  the  pleasure 
he  took  in  flaying  his  victims.*  If  the  flight  were 
accomplished,  and  the  prisoner  were  afterwards  re- 
taken, three  years  were  added  to  the  term  of  his 
original  sentence.  In  the  case  of  one  condemned  a 
perpetuite  or  for  life,  an  attempt  at  escape  was 
followed  by  the  bastonnade ;  while  re-arrest  entaired 
upon  the  convict  three  years  of  the  '  double  chain,' 
a  punishment  which  will  be  described. 

The  instant  an  escape  was  made  known,  three 
shots  from  the  alarm  gun  of  the  bagne  told  it  to  all 
the  neighbourhood;  signals  were  hoisted,  scouts 
sent  out,  a  cordon  of  sentries  was  drawn  about  the 
prison,  and  if  the  prey  were  not  soon  run  to  earth 
either  by  the  agents  of  the  law  or  by  the  amateur 
detectives  who  were  always  keen  on  the  scent,  a 
full  personal  description  was  posted  far  and  near. 
With  the  prime  of  a  hundred  francs  upon  his  head, 
once  lie  had  gained  the  open  country,  the  flying 
convict  was  hunted  without  mercy. 

*  Records  of  the  bagne  have  preserved  the  memory  of  a  certain 
•  Jean  le  Bourreau, '  a  bandy-legged  assassin  of  prodigious  strength, 
whose  delight  in  this  exercise  was  such  that  he  had  to  be  seized 
and  held  after  inflicting  the  allotted  punishment,  to  prevent  him 
from  adding  a  few  strokes  on  his  own  account. 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  273 

Now,  however,  that  it  has  been  shown  how  many 
obstacles  lay  in  the  path  of  the  would-be  prison- 
breaker,  and  what  lively  sufferings  the  failure  of 
his  efforts  assured  to  him,  it  remains  to  be  said  that 
escapes  from  the  bagnes  were  nevertheless  of  extra- 
ordinary frequency.  There  were  convicts  at  Toulon, 
Brest,  and  Rochefort,  whose  accumulations  of  sen- 
tence, resulting  from  innumerable  flights,  amounted 
to  fifty  years,  and  in  some  instances  even  to  one 
hundred  ;  and  others  who  had  passed  so  often  under 
the  relentless  hands  of  the  correcteur  that  their  bodies 
were  '  one  mask  '  of  scars. 

It  is  easily  gathered  from  this  that  in  every  bagne 
there  was  a  class  of  almost  indomitable  prison- 
breakers.  The  famous  Petit,  who  spent  more  than 
half  his  life  in  the  fetters  of  the  fo?yat,  was  contin- 
ually ridding  himself  of  them,  and  slipping  out  for  a 
holiday.  Re-taken  at  Abbeville  on  one  occasion, 
he  sent  word  to  the  mayor  that  he  should  leave 
prison  the  following  day,  as  it  was  '  not  at  all  a 
proper  sort  of  place.'  Making  a  jocular  inquiry  as 
to  his  safety  the  next  afternoon,  the  astonished 
mayor  learned  that  Petit  had  been  as  good  as  his 
word.  Forcing  his  way  into  a  linen-chamber,  he 
had  wrapped  his  fetters  in  some  loose  cloths,  then, 
ironed  as  he  was,  had  scaled  two  or  three  walls, 
dropped  into   a  garden,  and  hobbled  away.     Free- 


274  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

ing  himself  of  his  chains,  he  coolly  sold  them  in 
the  market-place,  and  walked  off.  When  relegated 
to  the  cachot  or  black  hole,  as  not  seldom  chanced 
to  him,  Petit  would  contrive  to  post  a  letter  to  a 
friend  :  •  Meet  me  at  such  a  place  on  such  a  day,' 
and,  whether  the  friend  kept  the  appointment  or 
not,  Petit  himself  was  almost  invariably  '  on  time.' 

Arigonde  was  another  who  put  a  sore  tax  upon 
the  vigilance  of  his  guards.  Like  Petit,  he  had 
the  art,  approaching  magic,  of  slipping  loose  in 
broad  light,  under  the  unseeing  eyes  of  guards  and 
comrades  alike. 

'My  foot  itches,'  said  Arigonde,  and  that  day 
or  the  next  Arigonde's  ankle-ring  and  length  of 
chain  would  be  trailing  empty  at  the  heel  of  his 
ex-companion. 

Oftener  than  not,  the  companion  was  as  com- 
pletely duped  as  the  warder  in  charge  of  the 
party.  He  felt  the  drag  on  the  chain  diminished, 
turned  about,  and  saw  that  he  was  alone. 

'  Old  Arigonde's  slung  his  hook  again !'  he  said  ; 
and  went  on  plying  his  pick,  or  shifting  the  gun- 
shot, or  piling  bricks,  or  turning  the  windlass; 
and  left  it  to  the  guard  to  discover  and  give  the 
signal  of  the  escape. 

Arigonde  was  one  of  the  old  forqats  who  could 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  B4.GNE  276 

walk  out  of  the  bagne  without  betraying  himself  by 
that  awkward  drag  of  the  leg  which  resulted  almost 
inevitably  from  wearing  the  chain. 

The  prisoner  determined  on  flight  seldom  let  slip  an 
opportunity.  The  quick-witted  Cochot  remembered 
that  salutes  were  fired  in  the  harbours  on  the  king's 
birthday. 

'  Very  good  !'  thought  Cochot.  *  If  in  the  midst 
of  those  salvos  I  should  have  the  luck  to  gain  the 
fields  beyond,  they  might  blaze  away  with  their 
alarm-guns  till  all  was  blue ;  for,  as  they  both 
play  the  same  tune,  who  would  know  one  from 
the  other  ?  All  right !  I'll  have  a  birthday  along 
with  his  majesty.' 

Surely  enough,  when  the  day  arrived,  the  guns 
of  the  bagne  were  banging  unnoticed  for  Cochot,  who 
was  quietly  trotting  through  the  fields. 

One  of  the  escapes  of  Victor  Desbois  from  Brest 
tested  at  once  his  audacity  and  his  address.  An 
inspector  came  to  make  his  official  tour  of  the  bagne, 
and  it  did  not  seem  to  strike  the  sentry  on  duty  at 
the  gate  that  he  had  been  very  quick  about  it,  for 
he  was  out  again  almost  before  he  had  been  passed 
in.  But  the  '  inspector,'  who  walked  out  with  his 
nose  in  the  air,  was  Victor  Desbois.  Having  filed 
through  his  anklet,  he  had  donned  in  an  instant  the 

T  2 

/ 


276  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

full  uniform  of  inspector  which  he  had  confected  out 
of  paper,  and  with  a  wig  and  moustaches,  also  of 
his  own  manufacture,  his  disguise  was  perfect. 
Effrontery  such  as  this  fortune  seldom  fails  to  reward. 

Opportunity  of  a  change  of  costume  presented 
itself  on  another  occasion  to  the  nimble  Hautdebout, 
engaged  in  the  convict  tailor's  shop.  On  a  nail 
above  his  head  hung  a  newly-finished  warder's  suit, 
which,  as  the  warder  was  in  hospital,  was  not  to  be 
delivered  for  a  week  to  come.  Measuring  it  with 
his  eye,  Hautdebout  reckoned  it  a  fair  fit  for  himself. 
Missing  only  a  warder's  cap.  This,  in  the  course  of 
a  night  or  two,  the  prisoner  put  together  out  of  a 
hundred  little  bits  of  cloth,  abstracted  at  odd  moments 
from  the  tailor's  shop.  With  the  cap  in  his  pocket 
on  the  following  day,  when  the  foreman  tailor's  back 
was  turned,  Hautdebout  whipped  the  warder's  suit 
from  the  nail,  slipped  it  on,  and  glided  from  the  scene. 
Unluckily,  the  foreman  a  minute  later  missed  the  new 
suit  from  the  nail,  the  alarm  was  given,  and  Hautde- 
bout's  brief  term  of  office  as  garde-chiourme  was 
ended.  He  lost  his  privileged  place  among  the  tailors, 
and  was  sent  to  the  chain  gang. 

Piercy,  condemned  a  vie  for  murder,  saw  some 
scaffolding  erected  for  repairs,  which  seemed  to  offer 
a  means  of  escape  ideal  in  its  simplicity.  It  stood 
conveniently  against  the  wall.     '  That  ought  to  bear 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  277 

me,'  thought  Piercy,  and  in  a  twinkling  he  found 
himself  on  the  right  side  of  the  wall  in  Bourbon 
Street,  Toulon.  But  there  was  a  warder  who  could 
climb  almost  as  well  as  Piercy,  and  who  laid  hands 
on  him  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Another  prisoner, 
equall}7  adroit,  was  equally  unfortunate  in  his  affair. 
A  rope  served  him  for  scaling  the  wall,  but  loosing 
his  hold  on  the  other  side  with  the  expectation  of 
dropping  into  a  quiet  lane,  he  fell  plump  into  a  hand- 
cart in  which  a  warder  was  taking  his  midday  siesta. 
*  You  never  know  your  luck.'  It  came  to  the  warder 
en  dormant,  bringing  him  the  legal  bonus  of  fifty 
francs  for  an  arrest  effected  within  the  limits  of  the 
town. 

The  forgats  were  often  aided  in  their  escapes  by 
relatives  or  friends  who  for  that  purpose  had  settled 
themselves  temporarily  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
bagne ;  and  sometimes  the  means  were  furnished  by 
an  ex-convict,  who  made  it  his  philanthropic  busi- 
ness to  cheat  the  authorities  in  the  interests  of  old 
companions  of  the  chain. 

It  would  take  long  to  enumerate  all  the  modes  of 
flight  which  were  practised  with  a  greater  or  less 
degree  of  success  in  one  French  ha<jne  or  another. 
It  may  be  said  of  the  great  escapes  that  each  one 
revealed  a  particular  instinct  on  the  part  of  the  pri- 
son-breaker.    The  forger's  plan  would  differ  from 


278  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  house-breaker's,  and  the  assassin  by  trade  would 
never  shrink  from  buying  his  liberty  at  the  price  of. 
blood. 

As  may  be  imagined,  it  was  the  best-laid  scheme 
which  had  the  best  chance  of  success.  True,  the 
most  reckless  attempt,  with  no  preparation  behind 
it,  did  not  always  end  in  failure,  though  this  was  its 
likeliest  and  most  usual  fate.  With  many  prisoners, 
escape  was  a  fixed  idea,  which  presently  became  a 
monomania ;  and  there  were  men  who,  possessing 
neither  the  address  nor  the  daring  requisite  to  the 
task,  were  nevertheless  continually  trying  to  get 
out.  An  old  forgat,  Gonnet  by  name,  and  sixty-eight 
years  of  age,  became  so  famous  by  reason  of  his 
failures  that  his  maladresse  passed  into  a  proverb ; 
and  a  botched  escape  was  known  in  the  bagne  of 
Toulon  as  a  gonette.  Patience  and  toil,  long  sustained 
and  renewed  after  discovery  had  made  them  fruitless, 
did  not  always  triumph  in  the  end.  Andre  Fanfan, 
who  had  found  or  fought  his  way  out  of  every  prison 
in  France,  and  who  whenever  he  was  in  durance  had 
the  honour  of  a  guard  specially  appointed  to  watch 
him,  was  brought  back  to  Rochefort  after  one  of  his 
most  brilliant  triumphs  over  justice.  In  his  com- 
munings with  himself  one  day,  Andre  said : 

1  Now  suppose,  my  boy,  there  was  an  underground 
passage,  running  the  length  of  the  yard,  with  a  nice 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  279 

little  opening  into  the  port.  Couldn't  you  make  a 
nice  little  opening  in  the  wall,  and  find  it  ?  Of  course 
you  could  !' 

There  proved  to  be  one  difficulty,  and  one  only. 
The  underground  passage  was  not  there. 

'  Dig  one,  my  boy  !'  said  Andre. 

It  needs  a  strenuous  effort  of  the  imagination  to 
put  oneself  for  a  moment  in  Andre  Fanfan's  place — 
constantly  watched,  a  solid  mass  of  masonry  to  re- 
duce, and  no  tools  to  his  hand  worth  speaking  of. 
A  few  grains  of  plaster  or  chips  of  stone  undisposed 
of  after  the  night's  work  were  enough  to  betray  the 
affair.  Fanfan  admitted  a  few  '  pals '  in  the  gang  to 
his  confidence,  but  took  the  direction  upon  himself, 
and  with  his  own  hands  did  the  main  part  of  the 
work.  Night  by  night,  after  the  gang  had  been 
chained  upon  the  guard-bed,  he  wrenched  his  anklet 
off;  and  with  his  nails  and  a  rusty  bolt  he  bit  his 
way  inch  by  inch  through  stone  and  earth.  He 
worked  with  the  strength,  swiftness,  and  silence  of 
a  mole  ;  and  never  by  a  tap  of  the  bolt  or  the  scratch- 
ing of  a  nail  betrayed  himself.  He  seemed  to  swallow 
the  stone  and  earth  which  he  displaced,  for  he  left 
never  a  trace  behind  him.  He  was  always  on  his 
plank,  sound  asleep,  when  the  whistle  gave  the 
signal  to  turn  out  in  the  morning  ;  his  ankle  safe  in 
the  ring.     When  the  tunnel  was  within  a  yard  or 


280  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

two  of  completion,  the  plot  was  disclosed.  One  of 
Andre's  subordinates,  condemned  for  a  breach  of  the. 
rules  to  the  black  hole,  begged  an  interview  with 
the  governor,  and  '  blew  the  gaff.'  The  governor, 
accompanied  by  an  orderly  with  a  dark  lantern,  made 
a  '  round  of  surprise '  the  next  night,  and  the  bull's- 
eye  was  flashed  upon  Andre  burrowing  in  his  tunnel. 
He  had  an  interview  with  his  flogger,  and  it  was 
noticed  that  he  smiled  at  the  last  stroke  but  one. 
An  inspiration  had  come  to  him  under  the  lash.  He 
was  three  weeks  in  hospital,  and  went  to  work  again 
on  the  night  of  his  release.  A  second  time  he  was 
betrayed,  and  Jean  le  Bourreau,  piqued  that  Andre 
had  so  soon  forgotten  him,  made  a  terrible  use  of  the 
whip  on  that  occasion.  Andre,  however,  had  the 
satisfaction  of  learning  that  the  governor  had  ex- 
pressed astonishment  at  the  skill  of  his  work.  He 
had  made  a  second  tunnel  reaching  to  within  arm's 
length  of  the  harbour  wall,  and  a  kind  of  little  vestry- 
room  midway,  in  which  he  had  bestowed  provisions, 
tools,  and  a  useful  assortment  of  disguises. 

Living  in  an  atmosphere  of  suspicion,  the  forqat 
himself  was  nothing  if  not  suspicious,  and  I  have 
said  that  he  preferred  to  plot  alone.  In  certain 
resorts,  however,  he  had  need  of  assistance,  and 
he  could  not  dispense  with  it  when  he  proceeded 
by  means    of  the   cachette.     The    cachette   was    the 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGKE  281 

temporary  hiding-place  to  which  the  prisoner 
retreated  when  he  separated  himself  from  his 
gang,  and  in  which  he  sometimes  remained  during 
several  days,  guarded  and  fed  meanwhile  by  his 
comrades.  It  was  a  dangerous  shelter  at  the 
best. 

The  prisoner  Plasson  ran  up  a  cachette  in  one  of 
the  building  yards,  crept  in  at  night,  and  made  the 
stones  fast  with  cement.  He  hoped  that,  if  he  lay 
there  unobserved  for  a  night  or  two,  he  would  be 
able  to  force  the  walls  with  his  hands ;  but  when  he 
made  the  attempt  he  found  to  his  horror  that  the 
cement  had  hardened,  and  that  he  had  in  effect 
buried  himself  alive.  In  this  frightful  situation  he 
overheard  a  warder-foreman  give  orders  for  a  load 
of  bricks  to  be  deposited  on  that  very  spot ;  some 
building  operations  were  to  be  commenced  there  the 
next  day.  That  night,  redoubling  his  efforts,  he 
succeeded  in  tearing  through  the  roof  of  his  tomb. 
Although  not  fully  prepared  for  flight,  he  had  a  rope 
around  his  waist,  with  the  help  of  which  he  lowered 
himself  over  the  harbour  wall.  Plasson  had  earned 
his  freedom,  if  ever  prison-breaker  had,  but  he  was 
not  to  possess  it.  He  fell  into  the  arms  of  two  night- 
fishermen,  who  seized  and  carried  him  back  to  the 
bagne. 

Tercet  and  Nercy  dug  a  pit  in  the  loose  earth  at 


282  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  back  of  the  stone-cutters'  shed,  and  provisioned 
it  for  several  days.  When  all  was  ready  they  de- 
scended into  their  sepulchre,  and  their  friends  laid 
over  it  a  slab  of  stone,  which  the  buried  pair  were 
to  raise  at  night.  But,  as  so  often  happened  where 
there  were  partners  in  a  plot,  Tercet  and  Nercy 
were  informed  against  before  nightfall,  and  a  party 
of  warders  spared  them  the  labour  of  lifting  the 
stone. 

In  every  bagne,  the  practice  of  constructing  caches 
or  cachettes  gave  rise  to  a  special  and  curious  industry. 
There  was  a  class  of  prisoners  less  keen  for  liberty 
or  more  logical  than  others  in  calculating  profits  and 
losses,  who  were  content,  for  a  price,  to  assist  those 
others  to  break  their  bonds.  When  a  new-comer 
known  to  have  resources  arrived  on  the  scene,  the 
cachette-msbkers  were  not  long  in  opening  up  negotia- 
tions. They  proposed  to  construct  him  a  shelter, 
and  to  furnish  him  with  provisions,  etc.  The  trans- 
action was  always  one  of  ready  money,  and  it  did 
not  extend  far  on  the  part  of  the  contractors.  When 
they  had  made  the  cachette,  and  seen  their  client  into 
it,  they  wished  him  good  luck  and  left  him  to  his 
own  devices.  In  addition  to  the  average  and  ordin- 
ary dangers,  an  arrangement  with  the  cache-makers 
had  its  own  disadvantages.  Like  the  warders  who 
were  open  to  a  bribe,  the  cacAe-makers  were    not 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  283 

always,  above  selling  their  clients  to  secure  the  legal 
prime ;  and  many  a  luckless  individual  was  peached 
upon  almost  before  he  had  ensconced  himself  in  his 
retreat. 

Over  and  above  the  fear  of  betrayal,  the  refugee 
had  reason  to  dread  a  strategical  movement  on  the 
part  of  the  prison  authorities  against  which  he  could 
not  possibly  guard.  Thus,  Avhen  it  was  suspected 
that  an  escaped  prisoner  was  in  hiding  within  the 
confines  of  dock  or  arsenal,  and  was  being  supplied 
with  food  by  his  comrades,  the  working-parties  were 
withdrawn  from  the  spot  at  which  the  escape  had 
been  effected,  and  replaced  by  others  who,  not  being 
in  the  secret,  could  render  no  assistance  to  the 
occupant  of  the  cache.  If  this  ruse  were  successful, 
the  prisoner  in  hiding  might  be  starved  into  giving 
himself  up,  or  he  might  be  immured  alive  in  his 
horrible  ouhliette,  and  be  ultimately  rescued  a 
corpse. 

There  were  certain  collective  escapes,  known  as 
the  escape  of  eleven,  the  escape  of  ten,  the  escape 
of  nine,  etc.  Cleverest  was  the  escape  of  nine  from 
Brest.  The  leader  was  a  man  condemned  to  the 
'  double  chain  ;'  that  is  to  say,  he  was  attached,  with 
others,  by  a  long  and  heavy  chain  to  a  bench  in  a 
separate  hall  of  the  prison ;  able  to  range  only  within 
the  limits  of  his  tether,  and  never  released  except  for 


281  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

a  rare  period  of  brief  exercise  in  a  walled  yard.  The 
double-chained  men,  moreover,  were  under  the  sur- 
veillance, day  and  night,  of  an  armed  and  special 
guard.  Nevertheless,  the  leader  of  the  '  escape  of 
nine,'  by  one  of  those  fabulous  devices  of  which  the 
hagne  had  the  secret,  got  rid  of  his  chain  and  let  him- 
self out  of  the  ward  by  a  false  key.  There  was  but 
one  way  of  reaching  the  roof,  and  that  was  by 
ascending  a  rope  which  hung  almost  within  reach  of 
a  sentry.  But  this  was  also  the  rope  of  the  prison 
bell! 

Up  went  the  leader  like  a  cat,  and  the  bell  never 
tinkled.  Arrived  at  the  clapper,  he  swung  there 
with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  swaddled  it 
carefully  in  linen.  The  bell  being  rendered  dumb, 
the  eight  went  up  after  their  leader,  who  had  mean- 
while forced  a  passage  through  the  roof.  The  whole 
party  disappeared,  but  the  leader  was  the  only  one 
who  got  clear  away.  The  sheep  for  whom  he  had 
played  '  bell  '-wether  were  one  by  one  brought  back 
to  the  fold,  and  paid  the  usual  forfeit. 

A  brilliant  affair  like  this  was,  of  course,  the  out- 
come of  a  well-ordered  plan,  and  one  can  hardly 
believe  that  it  dispensed  altogether  with  the  aid  or 
countenance  of  one  or  more  of  the  gardes-chiourme. 
Special  circumstances  apart,  the  rash  and  haphazard 
attempt  of  a  moment  seldom  issued  in  success ;  on  the 


FLIGHTS  FROM  THE  BAGNE  285 

other  hand,  the  scheme  of  most  elaborate  contrivance, 
depending  as  it  must  do  on  a  combination  of  the 
slenderest  chances,  was  liable  to  be  frustrated  by  a 
breath. 

The  old,  wary  hand  never  set  out  without  his 
necessaire — a  little  case  of  metal  or  leather,  which,  if 
fully  furnished,  contained  a  saw  and  some  other  tool, 
a  pocket  knife,  and  a  wig,  whiskers,  and  moustaches 
made  of  hair  or  oakum.  These  necessaires  were 
minutely  searched  for  on  the  persons  of  convicts  who 
were  thought  to  be  planning  an  escape,  and  some 
very  natty  and  well-equipped  cases  were  very  often 
brought  to  light. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  the  troubles 
of  the  forqat  were  not  over  when  he  had  got  beyond 
the  prison  walls.  Every  hand  almost  was  against 
him,  and  women  joined  in  the  chase  as  hungrily  as 
men.  Peasant  girls  wanting  the  money  for  a  trousseau 
would  denounce  to  the  police  a  half-starved  wretch 
flying  for  dear  life,  who  had  ventured  to  the  door  to 
beg  a  crust  of  bread.  In  the  neighbourhood  of 
Brest  there  were  certain  miserable  families,  dwelling 
for  the  most  part  in  caves  and  hollows  along  the 
coast,  who  lived  principally  on  the  profits  of  forgat- 
hunting.  At  the  booming  of  the  cannon  these 
jackals  were  up  and  sniffing  the  air ;  men,  women, 
and  children  armed  themselves  with  sticks,  stones, 


286  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

and  old  firelocks,  and  knowing  every  nook  and 
cranny  of  the  coast,  every  deserted  hovel  for  miles 
around  at  which  the  fugitive  might  stay  for  breath 
in  his  flight,  they  were  more  than  likely  to  pounce 
upon  him  before  he  had  enjoyed  the  small  consolation 
of  a  fair  run  for  his  money. 

At  no  time  and  in  no  situation  was  the  evader  of 
justice  really  safe  from  arrest.  There  were  old 
forgats  who,  after  wandering  for  years  from  town  to 
town,  from  village  to  village,  striving  to  create  an 
honourable  existenoe,  struggling  with  never  a  truce 
against  malignant  fate,  gave  up  at  last  the  unequal 
combat,  and  went  back  to  the  fetters  of  the  bagne. 


287 


AN  EPISODE  IN  THE  HISTORY  OF 
THE  COMfiDIE  FRANQAISE. 

i. 

It  was  in  a  moment,  as  it  were,  that  the  favoured 
comedians  of  His  Majesty  (a  doomed,  forlorn  Majesty 
who  had  virtually  ceased  to  reign)  found  themselves 
in  the  whirlpool  of  the  Revolution.  The  date  was 
November,  1 789.  The  Bastille  had  fallen ;  the  nobles 
were  flying  ;  Louis  and  his  Queen  were  under  rigor- 
ous watch  in  the  Tuileries ;  and  Paris  was  in  the 
grip  of  the  National  Assembly. 

Twenty-five  years  earlier,  Voltaire,  an  exile  at 
Ferney,  had  written  to  Saurin  (author  of  the  tragedy 
1  Spartacus,'  and  adaptor  of  ■  The  Gamester ')  : 

1  Some  day  we  shall  introduce  Popes  on  the  stage, 
as  the  Greeks  represented  their  Atreus  and  Thyestes, 
to  render  them  odious.  The  time  will  come  when 
the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  will  be  made  the 
subject  of  a  tragedy.' 


288  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  IRANCE 

His  prediction  was  verified  a  little  sooner  than  he 
may  have  anticipated.  Early  in  the  summer,  as  the 
ascendency  of  the  Tiers-etat  became  manifest,  Marie 
Joseph  Chenier  dramatised  this  dark  history  in  order 
to  expose  the  crown  and  the  mitre  to  additional 
odium.  But  Louis  was  still  king  in  name,  and  he 
declined  to  sanction  '  Charles  IX.'  His  players,  most 
of  whom  remained  loyal  to  the  authority  to  which 
they  owed  their  corporate  existence  and  their  privi- 
leges, were  unwilling  to  oppose  his  wishes ;  but 
revolutionary  Paris  was  of  another  mind.  Chenier 
went  up  and  down  the  town  declaring  that  his 
tragedy  had  been  arbitrarily  suppressed,  and  the  pit 
of  the  Theatre  Francais  was  clamorous  for  it. 

Fleury,  most  elegant  and  most  polished  of  his 
Majesty's  comedians,  as  fine  a  gentleman  off  the 
stage  as  he  was  on  it,  at  length  stepped  forward,  for 
the  play  that  was  being  given  could  get  no  hearing. 
M.  Chenier' s  piece,  he  said,  could  not  be  put  in  re- 
hearsal until  the  necessary  permission  had  been 
received. 

'  Necessary  permission  !'  a  wrathful  pittite  leaped 
upon  his  bench  and  cried.  '  We've  suffered  too  much 
from  censorship,  and  in  future  we  mean  to  have  what 
we  want.' 

*  Monsieur,'  returned  the  courteous  player,  '  the 
laws  which  have  governed  the  Comedie  Franchise 


THE  COMEDIE  FRANfAISE  283 

for  a  hundred  years  are  still  binding  on  it,  and  -we 
cannot  break  them.' 

'  Good  !'  said  the  spokesman  for  the  pit.  '  You 
had  better  consult  the  municipality  on  the  subject.' 

Fleury  gave  an  undertaking  that  this  should  be 
done,  and  the  next  day  a  deputation  of  the  players 
waited  on  the  representatives  of  the  Commune,  who, 
however,  with  somewhat  unusual  forethought,  for- 
bade the  piece,  on  the  ground  that  it  might  compro- 
mise public  tranquillity. 

Such  a  decision,  it  may  be  imagined,  was  little  to 
the  liking  of  the  pit ;  the  agitation  increased,  and 
in  five  days  the  authorities,  yielding  to  the  general 
demand,  sent  to  request  MM.  les  Com6diens  Francais 
(no  longer,  be  it  noted,  du  Roi)  to  place 1  Charles  IX.' 
on  their  stage  as  soon  as  possible.  Needless  to  say, 
the  king  had  not  removed  his  veto,  but  the  players 
had  tasted  the  temper  of  the  times,  and  another 
refusal  was  scarcely  to  be  hazarded. 

'  Charles  IX.'  was  put  in  rehearsal,  and  November 
4th  was  the  day  named  for  the  first  performance. 
Naudet  had  been  cast  for  the  part  of  Coligni ;  Van- 
hove  (with  his  Flemish  accent  and  monotonous 
delivery)  for  L'Hopital ;  Madame  Vestris  (who  said 
to  Chenier :  '  I  am  really  putting  myself  in  peril  for 
you.  This  queen-mother  is  so  detestable  that  I  am 
certain  to  be  shot  at !')  for  Catherine ;  St.  Fal  (the 

U 


290  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

■wig-maker's  son,  and  an  excellent  tragedian)  for 
Henry  of  Navarre ;  St.  Prix  (with  a  figure  '  to  remind 
spectators  of  the  Homeric  heroes')  for  the  fierce 
Cardinal, — but  who  should  play  the  marksman  of  the 
Louvre  balcony,  Charles  himself? 

After  much  deliberation  between  the  author  and 
the  senior  members  of  the  company,  the  part  had 
been  offered  to,  and  eagerly  accepted  by,  one  of  the 
youngest.  This  bold  young  man,  whose  age  was 
then  only  twenty-three,  was  the  son  of  a  French 
dentist  very  prosperously  settled  in  Cavendish  Street, 
London,  who  had  reared  him  almost  exclusively  on 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  As  a  youth,  he  had  played 
Hamlet  in  English  at  the  Hanover  Rooms ;  and 
Burke,  Fox,  Sheridan,  and  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire 
had  counselled  him  to  make  the  stage  his  profession. 
In  Paris,  whither  his  father  had  sent  him  to  manage 
his  business  in  the  Rue  Mauconseil,  Lord  Harcourt 
had  introduced  the  young  man  to  Mole,  who  had  just 
taken  the  town  as  Almaviva  in  Beaumarchais's 
1  Mariage  de  Figaro ;'  and  it  was  through  the  influence 
of  Mole  that  he  made  his  first  appearance  at  the 
Fran9ais,  as  Seide  in  Voltaire's  •  Mahomet,'  in  Octo- 
ber, 1787.  His  success  was  instantaneous,  but  the 
fixed  usages  of  the  House  of  Moliere  restricted 
him  thereafter  to  parts  of  no  importance ;  he 
must    wait  his  appointment    as    the    *  double '    of 


THE  COMEDIE  FRAN^AISE  291 

one  of  the  senior  members  of  the  company.  The 
name  of  this  young  player  was  Francis  Joseph 
Talma,  and  his  performance  as  Charles,  the  first 
notable  character  that  had  been  assigned  to  him, 
was  to  mark  a  turning-point  in  his  career. 

On  the  night  of  the  4th,  Republican  Paris  swarmed 
in  the  pit  of  the  Francois,  and  right  in  the  middle  sat 
Camille  Desmoulins  and  the  burly  Danton.  There 
were  Royalists  present  also,  and  they  did  their  royal 
best  to  have  the  piece  condemned ;  but  the  opposition 
out-shouted  them  from  first  to  last,  and  the  new 
tragedy  went  with  a  kind  of  roar.  The  success  of 
the  night  was  Talma's.  He  came  on  the  stage,  we 
are  told,  a  living  portrait  of  Charles,  and  Fleury  says 
of  one  particular  scene  that  the  sublimity  of  the 
young  actor's  conception  filled  them  all  with  amaze- 
ment.* Danton  declared  that  the  play  should  have 
for  second  title  '  L'ecole  des  Rois/ 

'  Beaumarchais,'  said  he,  '  killed  the  aristocracy ; 
Chenier  has  cut  the  throat  of  royalty  in  France.' 

But  the  fate  of  '  Charles  IX.'  hung  yet  in  the  bal- 
ance. The  clergy  urged  the  king  to  suppress  it,  but 
poor  Louis  doubted  whether  he  had  the  power  to  do 
so.  Still,  one  might  try  ;  and  the  Gentlemen  of  the 
Chamber,  through  whom  the  king  had  been  in  the 

*  '  Metnoires  de  Fleury,'  1757-1820. 

U2 


m  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

habit  of  instructing  or  counselling  the  players,  were 
despatched  with  an  order  for  the  withdrawal  of  the 
piece.  A  little  to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  Court, 
perhaps,  the  order  was  instantly  obeyed  ;  but  neither 
the  players  nor  Paris  had  seen  the  last  of  Charles  IX.' 

Talma's  expulsion  from  the  historic  theatre,  the 
next  event  of  significance,  was  a  consequence  rising 
more  or  less  directly  from  this  affair.  Chafing  under 
the  loss  of  the  first  fine  part  that  had  fallen  to  him,  a 
part  moreover  which  had  made  him  famous  in  a  night, 
he  attempted  to  break  through  the  rule  which  gave 
the  senior  actors  a  monopoly  of  the  leading  characters. 
Madame  Vestris  (who  had  been  twenty  years  in  the 
company)  and  one  or  two  others  sided  with  him,  but 
the  dominant  party  stood  firm,  and  the  attempt  failed. 
Now,  however,  the  House  of  Moliere  was  divided 
against  itself ;  on  the  one  side  stood  an  ardently  Re- 
publican section,  on  the  other  the  Reactionaries,  who 
held  to  the  fast-sinking  vessel  of  royalty.  The  latter 
were  the  stronger  party,  and,  careless  of  the  danger 
which  menaced  every  supporter  of  the  CroAvn,  they 
remained  deaf  to  the  advances  of  the  National 
Assembly,  who  had  just  restored  to  them  the  rights 
so  long  denied  by  the  Church. 

The  revolutionary  Press  took  up  the  cause  of 
Talma,  and  Camille  Desmoulins's  new  journal,  *  Re- 
volutions de  France  et   de  Brabant,'  published   an 


THE  COMEDIE  FRANQAISE  293 

article  against  Naudet,  in  which  he  was  accused  of 
interfering  with  the  liberty  of  the  stage,  of  aiming 
a  blow  at  the  young  tragedian,  and  of  other  grave 
misdemeanours.  Talma  himself  had  the  bad  taste 
to  write  a  reply  to  the  article,  affirming  the  charges 
against  his  fellow-player  to  be  true.  A  general 
meeting  of  the  Comedie  Francaise  was  convened  in 
the  green-room,  and  on  the  motion  of  Fleury  it  was 
unanimously  resolved  that  Talma  should  be  expelled 
from  the  theatre.  Revolutionary  Paris  rallied  to  his 
side,  and  the  new  Municipality  itself  took  the  matter 
in  hand.  Fleury  and  his  associates  were  requested 
to  appear  before  Mayor  Bailly  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
Bailly  was  urbanity  itself,  but  he  informed  the  actors 
that  their  theatre  was  now  a  national  institution, 
that  their  rules  (which  he  advised  them  to  '  regulate ') 
could  not  entitle  them  to  interfere  with  the  gratifica- 
tion of  the  public  and  the  prosperity  of  art,  and  that, 
in  a  word,  M.  Talma  must  be  re-instated.  The 
players  withdrew  protesting;  they  protested  for  a 
week  or  more,  and  then  Talma  was  recalled.  He 
did  not  stay  long  with  them.  The  Assembly  had 
already  passed  a  decree  which  was  in  effect  one 
of  free  trade  in  theatrical  matters,  enabling  any 
body  of  actors  to  represent  new  plays  in  Paris. 
This  was  presently  extended  to  include  the  works 
of  dead  authors,  Avhich  meant  the  complete  abolition 


294  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

of  the  monopoly  which  the  king's  players  had  enjoyed 
since  the  days  of  Moliere.  New  theatres  arose  ;  and 
Talma,  taking  with  him  Vestris,  Dugazon,  and  others, 
went  over  to  the  Theatre  Francais  de  la  Rue  de 
Richelieu. 

From  this  date,  however,  the  Comedie  Fran9aise 
began  to  be  viewed  with  suspicion  and  disfavour  by 
the  extreme  Revolutionary  party.  The  pit  grew 
more  and  more  turbulent,  more  and  more  hostile ; 
and  JFleury  notes  that,  in  rubbing  on  the  rouge  at 
night,  his  hand  trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  he 
might  have  to  undergo.  For  all  this,  neither  he  nor 
his  comrades  were  shaken  in  their  devotion  to  the 
hopeless  cause  of  the  Crown ;  and  of  that  devotion 
they  were  to  give  one  signal  proof  which,  in  the 
circumstances,  seems  worthy  to  be  called  heroic. 
The  royal  family  were  now  prisoners  in  the  Temple  ; 
their  case  was  even  then  desperate,  and  scarcely  less 
desperate,  perhaps,  was  the  case  of  all  who  were 
known  to  be,  or  suspected  of  being,  in  sympathy 
with  them.  At  such  a  fateful  moment,  when  the 
tapes-dur,  those  satyr-like  janissaries  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  the  '  furies  de  la  guillotine  '  were  dancing 
the  Carmagnole  round  the  red-running  scaffold  of 
Samson,  the  king's  comedians  had  the  courage  to 
produce  a  piece  by  Laya,  written  expressly  in  the 
interests  of  the  abandoned  Louis.     It  was  almost  like 


THE  COM&DIE  FRANQAISE  295 

stretching  out  their  necks  to  the  headsman;  but 
they  did  it,  and  put  their  hearts  into  lines  which 
aimed  directly  at  Robespierre,  Marat,  and  the  whole 
faction  of  the  Mountain.  The  Jacobins  contrived 
to  suppress  the  •  Ami  des  Lois '  after  the  first  per- 
formance, but  the  doings  of  the  royalist  players  were 
now  observed  more  closely  and  malignantly  than 
ever.     Their  Ides  of  March  drew  near. 

Late  in  the  summer  of  1793,  Francois  de  Neufcha- 
teau,  a  reforming  member  of  the  Legislative  Assem- 
bly, who  had  thought  with  Lay  a  that  France  was 
dancing  the  wrong  road  to  freedom,  wrote  and  sent 
to  the  Comcdie  a  new  version  of  *  Pamela.'  Just 
half  a  century  earlier,  when,  thanks  to  Voltaire's 
almost  regal  influence  in  letters,  Frenchmen  of  edu- 
cation had  become  familiar  with  the  language  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  Pierre  Lachauss6e,  who  has 
been  styled  the  inventor  of  the  '  comcdie  attendris- 
sante,'  or  sentimental  comedy,  produced  on  the  stage 
of  the  Francais  a  five-act  play  in  verse,  adapted 
from  Richardson's  prodigious  novel.  It  was  not  to 
the  taste  of  a  Parisian  audience,  but  in  its  printed 
form  the  work  had  a  host  of  readers,  and  in  the 
course  of  fifty  years  '  Pamela '  became  one  of  the  best 
known  tales  in  France. 

This  adaptation,  which  was  called  '  Pamela,  ou  la 
Vertu  recompensee,'  and  which  was  at  once  accepted 


296  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

by  the  Com^die  Francaise,  escaped  in  some  way  the 
jealous  censorship  of  the  Reign  of  Terror.  It  was 
given  on  August  1st,  1793.  Consciously  or  not  on 
its  author's  part,  the  tone  of  '  Pamela '  reproduced 
the  tone  of  the  '  Ami  des  Lois,'  and  it  sealed  the  fate 
of  the  players.  Their  Ides  of  March  had  come. 
'  Pamela '  ran  for  eight  nights,  and  was  then  sus- 
pended. Neuf chateau  made  a  pretence  of  revising 
it,  and  the  actors  had  the  hardihood  to  announce  a 
ninth  performance.  The  curtain  rose,  and  the  piece 
went  forward,  the  pit  packed  with  tapes-dur  in  their 
foxskin  caps  and  jackets  smeared  with  the  blood  of 
that  day's  victims.  At  a  line  spoken  by  Fleury,  some 
one  sprang  up  in  the  pit  and  shouted  : 

'  Thatpassage  has  been  prohibited  by  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety  P 

1  Pardon,'  returned  the  imperturbable  Fleury,  '  the 
Committee  of  Public  Safety  has  passed  every  word 
of  it.' 

There  was  a  scuffle,  and  the  disturber  found  himself 
ejected.  It  seems  that  he  ran  at  once  to  the  Jacob- 
ins' Club,  to  denounce  the  actors  at  the  Comedie  for 
poisoning  public  opinion,  and  speaking  lines  which 
the  censor  had  forbidden.  An  hour  later,  as  the 
curtain  was  rising  for  the  second  piece,  news  was 
carried  to  the  green-room  that  the  military  had 
surrounded  the  theatre. 


THE  COMJ'JDIE  FRANfAlSE  297 

•  Shall  we  run  ?'  said  pretty  Mile.  Lange  to  Fleury 
at  the  wings. 

'  M'amie,'  answered  Fleury,  '  it  would  be  of  no  use. 
We  are  safer  where  we  are.  This  is  our  10th  of 
August,  inamie.' 

The  piece  was  played  to  the  end,  and  the  players 
were  allowed  to  quit  the  theatre ;  but  all  of  them 
were  arrested  in  their  homes  before  midnight.  It 
was  one  hundred  and  thirteen  years  since  the  associ- 
ation of  the  Comedie  Fran9aise  had  been  formed,  in 
1680,  by  letters  patent  under  the  royal  seal ;  and 
now  the  doors  of  their  play-house  were  closed.  Let 
us  follow  the  hardy  players  into  their  strange 
captivity. 

II.      , 

Nothing  in  Europe  has  matched  the  spectacle  of  the 
prisons  of  Paris  during  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Mirabeau, 
Linguet,  Latude  (or  the  person  who  wrote  in  that 
name),  the  compiler  of  the  '  Archives  de  la  Bastille,' 
and  others,  have  some  poignant  tales  to  tell  of  the 
prisons  of  the  Monarchy ;  but  none  of  these  can 
match  the  histories  of  the  Revolutionary  prisoners, 
of  Saint-Meard  especially,  whose  'Agonie  de  trente- 
huit  Heures '  falls  on  the  ear  at  this  day  like  the 
dripping  of  blood  from  a  mortal  wound.  When  the 
September  Massacres  were  over,  that  butchery  of  a 


298  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

hundred  hours  between  the  afternoon  of  Sunday  the 
2nd  and  the  evening  of  Thursday  the  6th  (1792), 
it  might  have  seemed  that  Ossa  had  been  hurled  on 
Pelion;  but  the  swift,  uninterrupted  slaughter  of 
those  five  successive  days  was  followed,  just  one 
year  later,  by  the  protracted  sufferings  of  a  hetero- 
geneous mass  of  some  thousands  of  Royalists  and 
Republicans,  flung  together  in  the  strangest  pell- 
mell,  in  all  the  prisons  of  Paris.  The  common 
gaols  were  not  enough  to  hold  them ;  palace  and 
convent  were  made  dungeons  for  the  nonce.  In 
the  Conciergerie  lay  Marie  Antoinette  (to  be  followed 
at  no  long  interval  by  Charlotte  Corday),  who  could 
hear  the  drunken  turnkeys,  with  their  dogs  at  their 
heels,  spelling  out  their  roll  of  prisoners  at  lock-up. 
In  Sainte-Pelagie  was  Madame  Roland,  stinting  her- 
self to  save  food  for  the  poorer  prisoners.  In  the 
Luxembourg  was  the  flower  of  the  French  aristocracy, 
keeping  up  the  old  etiquette,  with  cards  and  music 
of  an  evening,  and  one  ear  straining  for  the  footstep 
of  Guiard,  or  his  deputy  Verney,  coming  with  the 
list  of  those  who  were  to  die  on  the  morrow.  In  the 
Abbaye,  along  with  others,  were  the  three  hundred 
families  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  flung  in  there 
on  a  single  night;  the  fourteen  young  girls  who 
went  to  the  guillotine  in  one  tumbril,  looking,  it  was 
said,  like  a  basket  of  lilies ;  and  the  nuns  of  the  con- 


THE  COMEDIE  FRANpAISE  2W 

vent  of  Montmartre,  who  were  guillotined  in  one 
batch.  And  in  all  these  prisons,  when  death,  with 
or  without  trial,  came  to  be  regarded  as  certain,  was 
to  be  seen  that  curious  exaltation  of  spirit  which  is 
shown  by  the  playing  of  the  guillotine  game  in  the 
Conciergerie,  by  the  last  supper  of  the  Girondins  in 
the  same  prison,  by  the  voluntary  sacrifice  of  friend 
for  friend,  or  parent  for  child,  if  the  chance  offered, 
and  by  the  attitudes  in  death  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
Danton,  Madame  Roland,  and  Charlotte  Corday. 

Into  this  world  turned  topsy-turvy,  a  world  wherein 
the  reality  must  have  appeared  to  each  new  comer 
like  some  wild  phantasmagoria,  were  cast,  on 
the  2nd  of  September,  1793,  the  players  of  the 
Comedie  Francaise.  It  is  not  certain  whether  the 
ladies  of  the  company  went  to  Saint-Lazare  or  to 
Sainte-Pelagie ;  the  men  were  despatched  to  the 
Madelonnettes,  erstwhile  the  asylum,  or  convent,  of 
repentant  Magdalens.  Chief  among  them  were  Fleury, 
Vanhove,  Dazincourt,  Mole,  Champville,  St.  Prix, 
and  Dupont ;  allW  them  well-known  men,  of  whom 
several  had  received  special  marks  of  royal  favour. 
Fleury,  one  of  the  best  known  men  in  Paris,  had 
been  on  the  boards  since  the  age  of  seven,  when,  as 
a  rosy-cheeked,  black-eyed  boy,  he  made  his  d&but 
at  Nancy,  in  the  presence  of  the  ex-King  Stanislaus, 
and   was   kissed   in  the   royal  box  by  Madame  de 


300  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

Boufflers.  He  had  pulled  Voltaire's  wig  at  Ferney, 
and  in  return  for  that  impertinence  the  great  man 
gave  him  some  lessons  in  acting.  His  impersonation 
of  Frederick  the  Great,  on  the  eve  of  the  Revolution, 
was  so  life-like  that  Prince  Henry  of  Prussia,  hardly 
able,  it  is  said,  to  believe  that  his  brother  had  not 
risen  from  the  grave,  presented  him  with  Frederick's 
own  snuff-box,  saying, 

'  Nobody  knows  better  than  yourself  how  to  use  it.' 
Mole,  famous  both  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  had 
been  petted  at  Court,  and  the  young  nobles  used  to 
flock  to  the  theatre  to  take  lessons  in  deportment 
from  him.  When  he  fell  ill  in  1767,  the  street  in 
which  he  lived  was  blocked  all  day  by  the  coaches 
of  inquirers,  and  the  night's  performance  was  regu- 
larly preceded  by  a  report  of  his  condition.  Dazin- 
court,  a  refined  and  often  brilliant  comedian,  was 
the  original  representative  of  the  barber  in  '  Le 
Mariage  de  Figaro.' 

'We  were  no  ordinary  victims,'  writes  Fleury, 
*  we  were  a  literary  corporation,  bearing  with  us 
into  exile  all  the  gracious  past  of  France.  We  re- 
presented in  miniature  all  that  gives  charm  to  life, 
and  we  were  honoured  as  a  body  who  had  shown 
courage  and  a  united  front  at  a  time  when,  apart 
from  the  trivial  courage  of  dying,  all  courage  had 
vanished,  all  union  had  been  shattered.' 


THE  COMtDIE  FRAN<?AISE  301 

All  the  prisons  of  Paris  at  this  date  were  in  a  state 
as  wretched  as  the  Newgate  described  by  Howard, 
and  Les  Madelonnettes  would  seem,  according  to 
the  authors  of  '  Les  Prisons  de  Paris,'  to  have  been 
almost  the  worst.  To  say  that  the  prisons  of  the 
Terror  were  overcrowded  would  be  rather  to  flatter 
the  memories  of  those  who  were  responsible  for 
filling  them.  They  were  packed  to  their  very  utmost 
capacity  of  accommodation.  The  Madelonnettes, 
contrived  to  hold  about  two  hundred  prisoners,  was 
charged  with  a  complement  of  more  than  three 
hundred.  On  one  floor,  in  cells  five  feet  square  and 
nine  feet  high,  space  was  made  for  no  fewer  than 
twelve  sleeping  cots  about  eighteen  inches  wide. 
The  cells  had  two  small  windows  protected  by  crossed 
iron  bars.  Even  with  twelve  beds  to  a  cell,  there 
were  many  prisoners  who  had  to  make  shift  in  the 
corridors  on  mattresses  well  stocked  with  vermin. 
Marino  of  the  police,  who  was  the  inspector  of  this 
prison,  had  an  unvarying  answer  for  all  complaints  : 

1  You  won't  be  here  long  ;  this  is  only  your  ante- 
chamber. You  must  learn  to  wait.  Oh,  you  shall 
have  prisons  big  enough  by  and  by,  citizens !' 

The  Madelonnettes  had  a  garden  and  a  spacious 
courtyard,  but  Marino  forbade  their  use  to  his 
prisoners,  who  were  forced  to  take  their  exercise  in 
the  corridors. 


302  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

When  the  players  of  the  Frari9ais  arrived  at  this 
noisome  hold,  it  was  already  in  the  occupation  of  the 
suspects  of  the  Mountain,  the  Contrat-Social,  and 
the  Marches,  not  to  mention  a  motley  crew  of  thieves, 
forgers,  and  cut-throats.  In  the  beginning  they  were 
all  herded  together, — players,  political  offenders, 
criminals ;  but  the  last  mentioned  were  presently 
sent  to  an  upper  limbo  of  the  prison,  and  the  captives 
of  the  Revolution  were  distributed  in  the  three 
remaining  storeys. 

Fleury  tells  us  how  they  busied  themselves  in 
trying  to  make  their  cells  more  habitable  ;  '  each  of 
us  a  veritable  Crusoe,  nailing  up  shelves,  putting 
down  carpets,  and  so  forth,  until  an  order  came  to 
deprive  us  of  all  our  tools.' 

After  infinite  pains  he  succeeded  in  making  him- 
self a  sort  of  desk,  and  adds  that  he  possessed  besides 
half  a  pair  of  snuffers  :  '  I  don't  mean  that  the  snuffers 
were  incomplete,  but  the  other  half  belonged  to 
Rochelle.'  And  he  goes  on :  '  How  we  used  to 
criticise  one  another's  work,  and  brag  of  our  own  ! 
I  can  still  recall  with  a  smile  the  pitying  glance  I 
bestowed  on  Champville's  [carpentry,  and  his  air  of 
commiseration  as  he  watched  me  struggling  with 
the  saw.' 

Relaxations  less  agreeable   than  these  were  the 
domestic  offices  which  each  had  to  bear  his  parfc  in 


THE  C0MED1E  FRANQAISE  303 

— making  the  beds,  sweeping  and  scouring  the  cells 
and  corridors.  Fleury  rallies  St.  Prix,  going  about 
with  his  broom  shouldered  like  a  musket,  sweeping 
here  and  there,  very  dignified  but  very  clumsy,  and 
apostrophising  himself  in  an  undertone  : 

'Poor  Agamemnon,  at  what  a  pass  do  I  behold 
you !' 

But  this  life  which,  on  the  surface,  seems  not  much 
more  depressing  than  a  picnic  on  a  rainy  day,  had 
its  ever-flowing  under-current  of  tragedy.  One  guest 
or  another  (they  were  not  yet  sweeping  them  out  by 
fournees,  or  batches,  from  the  Madelonnettes)  was 
always  receiving  his  summons  to  withdraw.  Ex- 
Lie  utenant  General  of  Police,  M.  de  Crosnes,  was 
one  of  the  company  in  the  Madelonnettes.  He  had 
distinguished  himself  by  his  charitable  zeal  in 
arranging  a  scheme  under  which  the  prisoners  became 
the  almoners  of  the  poorer,  finding  them  in  food, 
clothing,  and  other  necessaries.  One  night  M.  de 
Crosnes  is  playing  trictrac  in  Fleury's  cell  with 
another  proscribed  noble,  M.  de  Latour  Dupin,  when 
his  name  echoes  through  the  corridors. 

'  No  need  to  ask,'  writes  Fleury,  '  what  that  sum- 
mons boded  I' 

1  Yes,  yes,  I'm  ready !'  says  De  Crosnes ;  and  rose 
at  once,  as  if  he  had  an  order  to  give.  '  Gentlemen,' 
says  he  to  his  cell-mates,  ■  I  fear  I  must  bid  you 


304  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

good-bye !  It  is  evidently  my  turn  to  night.  I  could 
not  have  spent  my  last  hours  more  pleasantly. 
Good-bye !  and  God  bless  you  !' 

And  he  goes  out  as  calmly  as  though  he  had  been 
going  to  an  audience  of  the  king.  Sometimes,  of 
course,  it  was  more  painful  than  this ;  some  prisoner, 
■who  had  hoped  against  hope  that  his  petition  had 
been  heard,  would  receive  his  answer  in  that  same 
callous  summons,  and,  soul  and  body  failing  him, 
would  be  carried  half-inanimate  to  his  death. 

In  all  these  prisons  of  the  Terror,  rigorous  as 
the  orders  were  at  last,  much  depended  upon  the 
personal  character  of  the  concierge,  or  governor.  In 
three  or  four  instances  the  prisoners  were  exception- 
ally happy  in  their  chief.  One  must  not  forget,  for 
example,  the  heroism  of  Bouchotte,  governor  of 
Sainte-Pelagie,  who,  when  he  heard  the  red-bonnets 
nearing  his  prison  during  the  September  massacres, 
slipped  his  prisoners  out  by  a  subterranean  passage, 
after  having  made  his  warders  bind  his  wife  and 
himself  with  cords  in  the  courtyard  of  the  gaol. 

'  Citizens,'  he  said  to  the  butchers,  when  they  had 
forced  the  doors,  '  you  are  just  too  late  !  My  birds 
have  flown.  They  got  wind  of  your  coming,  tied  my 
wife  and  myself  like  this,  and  forced  the  bars.' 

This  is  the  handsomest  story  told  of  the  governors 
of  the   Revolutionary  prisons ;  but   Benoit   of  the 


THE  COMEDIE  FRAN^AISE  305 

Luxembourg,  and  Richard,  who  was  little  less  than 
guardian  angel  to  Marie  Antoinette  in  the  Concier- 
gerie,  have  left  us  grateful  memories.  Not  less  for- 
tunate were  the  prisoners  of  the  Madelonnettes  in 
their  M.  Vaubertrand. 

'  All  contemporary  chronicles,  and  the  testimonies 
of  all  the  prisoners,'  say  the  authors  of  '  Les  Prisons 
de  l'Europe,'  '  unite  in  praise  of  the  humanity  of 
Vaubertrand  and  his  wife.' 

It  was  Vaubertrand  who  insisted  on  a  decent  clas- 
sification of  the  prisoners,  who  substituted  beds  for 
the  cots  in  the  cells,  and  who  tried  by  every  means 
to  render  the  lot  of  his  prisoners  more  tolerable  and 
less  humiliating.  But  neither  the  cares  of  Vauber- 
trand nor  the  precautions  of  Dr.  Dupontet,  his 
indefatigable  lieutenant,  could  keep  disease  from  a 
place  in  which  the  air  was  always  fetid,  the  food 
indifferent,  and  the  supply  of  water  wretchedly  inade- 
quate. Epidemic  sickness  of  some  sort  was  common 
in  nearly  all  the  prisons  of  the  Revolutionary  epoch. 

There  was  fever  in  the  Conciergerie  and  fever  in 
the  Luxembourg ;  and  in  the  Madelonnettes  an  epi- 
demic of  small-pox,  which  raged  during  many  weeks. 
In  none  of  these  prisons  was  there  any  fit  hospital ; 
in  the  Madelonnettes  none  whatever,  and  the  authori- 
ties persisted  in  their  cruel  refusal  to  open  the  court- 
yard.    Brisk  Dupontet  (whose  benevolent  activity  is 

X 


305  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

in  fine  contrast  with  the  gross  indifference  displayed 
by  most  prison  surgeons  of  his  time)  made  the  best 
of  a  heart-breaking  situation.  He  insisted  on  the 
doors  and  windows  being  opened  at  certain  hours, 
the  cells  and  corridors  being  sprayed  with  vinegar, 
and  so  forth.  For  the  prisoners  who  were  still  in 
health  he  prescribed  abundant  exercise  before  dinner 
and  supper,  and  to  give  an  interest  to  this  he  organ- 
ised a  series  of  military  promenades  in  the  corridors. 

'  We  must  have  looked  queer  enough,'  writes 
Fleury.  '  The  light  in  the  galleries  was  so  feeble 
that  many  of  us  carried  candles.  Imagine  us  on  the 
march  through  those  dim  passages ;  pale  faces 
which  would  not  have  smiled  for  an  empire  ;  here  a 
nodding  night-cap,  there  a  flowered  dressing-gown, 
or  a  white  pique  over-all ;  and  the  yellow  rays  of 
the  candles  creating  the  most  grotesque  effects  as 
we  advanced,  wheeled,  or  formed  in  line.  Madame 
Vaubertrand,  who  would  come  sometimes  to  watch 
us,  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  we  were  worthy  a 
canvas  of  Rembrandt ;  the  truth  is,  I  fear,  that  we 
deserved  to  be  mistaken  for  a  caricature  by  Callot.' 

Fleury's  light-glancing  humour  comes  often  to  the 
rescue  ;  and  he  and  his  fellow-comedians,  vrith.  their 
trained  art  of  playing  upon  the  emotions  of  others, 
must  have  softened  and  brightened  many  a  dreary 
hour  in  the  prison. 


THE  COMEDIE  FRAN^AISE  307 

Meanwhile  they  were  not  forgotten  of  their  ene- 
mies. They  had  lain  seven  months  in  prison,  had 
learned  the  deaths  of  Marie  Antoinette,  of  the  twen- 
ty-two Girondins,  of  Egalite  Orleans,  Madame  Ro- 
land, and  Mayor  Bailly,  when  Collot  d'Herbois  wrote 
to  Fouquier-Tinville  to  hasten  the  case  against  them. 
Collot  had  been  in  touch  with  the  theatre.  He  had 
been  hissed  off  the  stage  at  Lyons  :  he  was  the  au- 
thor, or  adaptor,  of  a  piece  which  had  failed  at  the 
Francais  ;  and  a  sister  of  Fleury  had  assisted  him  to 
escape  from  the  prison  of  Bordeaux,  when  he  lay 
there  under  sentence  of  death  on  a  conviction  for 
felony.  As  morals  went  at  that  chaotic  era,  he  had 
grounds  sufficient  for  his  hostility  against  the  Com^die 
Francaise  ;  it  was  the  day  of  days  for  the  wreaking  of 
personal  and  private  vengeance. 

In  very  many  cases  the  fate  of  the  accused  was 
sealed  before  the  dossier,  or  brief,  had  been  submit- 
ted to  the  docile  tribunal.  The  judge  merely  passed 
sentence  in  accordance  with  the  instruction  con- 
veyed to  him  by  means  of  the  capital  letter  in  red 
ink  on  the  margin  of  the  brief.  Thus,  R  stood  for 
acquittal,  D  for  banishment,  and  G  for  the  guillotine. 
In  cases  where  the  docket  had  been  branded  with 
the  fatal  G,  appeal  was  seldom  allowed. 

Six  of  the  players  were  singled  out  for  immediate 
trial,  or  rather,  for  immediate  judgment,  and  tho 

x2 


S08  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

six  briefs  bore  the  emblem  of  the  guillotine.  Fleury 
Dazincourt,  and  Miles.  Louise  Contat,  Emilie  Contat, 
Kaucourt,  and  Lange  were  d'Herbois's  chosen  vic- 
tims. Francoise  Marie  Antoinette  Raucourt,  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  stately  women  on  the  stage, 
had  made  her  first  appearance  at  the  Fran9ais  in 
1772.  She  had  risen  quickly  into  fame,  and  Repub- 
lican Paris  remembered  with  envious  hatred  the 
splendour  of  her  appearance  as  she  drove  through 
the  streets  to  the  theatre.  Louise  Contat,  who  had 
appeared  four  years  later,  was  a  beauty  of  a  differ- 
ent type,  and  the  best  of  all  Susannes  in  Beaumar- 
chais's  play ;  her  sister  Emilie  was  a  dainty  little 
coquette  on  and  off  the  stage.  Annie  Lange, 
barely  twenty-one  years  of  age,  had  but  just  made 
her  mark ;  she  was  the  Pamela  of  the  piece  which 
had  wrought  the  downfall  of  the  players. 

'  You  will  bring  them  before  the  Tribunal,'  wrote 
Collot  to  Fouquier-Tinville,  'on  the  thirteenth 
Messidor.' 

But  the  thirteenth  Messidor  passed,  and  the  play- 
ers had  not  appeared  at  Tinville's  bar.  Had  Collot 
d'Herbois  relented  ?  No  ;  but  a  very  singular  thing 
was  happening  at  the  Bureau  des  Pieces  Accusatives, 
the  office  through  which  all  proofs  of  royalist  guilt 
had  to  pass  before  being  delivered  to  the  public 
prosecutor.     At  the  daily  risk  of  his  life,  the  clerk 


THE  C0M&D1E  FRANgAlSE  309 

in  charge  of  these  documents  was  destroying  them 
wholesale.  The  name  of  this  forgotten  hero  of  the 
Terror  was  Charles  Labussiere,  once  low-comedian 
of  the  obscure  Theatre  Mareux,  who  was  using  his 
position  of  trust  under  the  bloody  masters  of  the 
Revolution  to  save  the  lives  of  hundreds  of  innocent 
creatures.  Shift  the  scene  a  moment,  and  watch  at 
his  stealthy  task  of  salvation  the  one-time  humble 
player  of  the  humble  Mareux  Theatre,  the  favourite 
butt  of  the  grisettes  and  shopboys  in  the  pit.  There 
was  not  in  all  France  at  this  hour  a  braver  man 
than  he. 

'My  first  care  [he  used  to  say]  was  to  save  as  many  fathers 
and  mothers  as  I  could.  Having  abstracted  a  certain  num- 
ber of  pieces  accusatives,  I  locked  them  carefully  away  in 
my  oaken  drawer.  But  as  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
leave  some  work  for  the  executioner,  I  had  to  cast  a  cer- 
tain number  of  documents  into  the  fatal  portfolio  (feeling 
as  if  I  were  myself  dropping  the  heads  into  Samson's 
basket).  Imagine,  however,  the  joy  I  felt  in  rescuing 
the  others  !  But  just  here  arose  a  very  embarrassing 
question :  What  should  I  do  with  the  papers  I  had  remov- 
ed ?  Burn  them  ?  Impossible  ;  there  wasn't  a  fire,  for  it 
was  the  height  of  summer.  They  were  too  bulky  to  carry 
away,  for  everyone  was  searched  on  leaving  the  office.  I 
racked  my  brains  for  a  means  of  escape  for  my  protegees. 
My  forehead  burned,  and  I  turned  to  bathe  it  in  the  bucket 


310  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

of  water  which  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room  to  cool  our 
wine  for  dejeuner.  That  plunge  into  the  bucket  was  an  in- 
spiration— why  not  diminish  the  bulk  of  my  precious  papers 
by  soaking  them  in  the  water  ?  Carrier  had  his  noi/adcs  of 
death ;  I  would  have  my  noyades  of  salvation  !  Quick  !  I 
threw  my  papers  into  the  bucket,  softened  and  rolled  them 
into  pellets.  The  pellets  were  easily  bestowed  in  my  pock- 
ets ;  I  slipped  out  unquestioned,  stepped  across  to  the  Bains 
Vigier,  set  a-going  my  little  flotilla  of  innocents,  and  watch- 
ed anxiously  enough  their  easy  progress  down  the  banks  of 
the  Place  de  la  Revolution.' 

So,  in  a  moment,  the  story  has  come  to  an  end, — 
for  the  dockets  of  the  six  comedians  of  a  Majesty 
who  had  long  since  been  decapitated  had  swum  with 
the  rest  of  the  flotilla.  The  fraud  upon  the  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety  was  discovered,  and  fresh 
briefs  were  prepared  against  the  players.  But  their 
Ides  of  March  were  now  not  only  come  but  gone ; 
for  the  ink  was  not  dry  upon  the  second  set  of  briefs 
when  the  fateful  pistol-shot  in  the  Hall  of  Conven- 
tion announced  that  the  Reign  of  Terror  was  over, 
and  the  10th  Thermidor  reversed  the  decree  of  the 
13th  Messidor. 

Three  sentences  may  make  a  fitting  postscript. 
Labussiere  escaped,  and  told  his  story  often,  '  in  the 
brusque  way  he  had,'  writes  our  friend  Fleury,  '  with 


THE  COMEDIE  FRAN<?AISE  311 

an  odd  little  stammer,  and  an  up-and-down  move- 
ment of  his  black  eye-brows.' 

Talma,  whose  passionate  Republicanism  had  carried 
him  safely  through  the  Terror,  was  the  first  to  wel- 
come on  their  release  the  comrades  who  had  banished 
him ;  and  there  is  a  pretty  story  of  Louise  Contat 
falling  on  his  neck,  when  she  was  told  that  he  had 
spent  half  his  savings  to  get  possession  of  a  letter 
in  which  Fleury  had  incriminated  himself  in  the 
interests  of  Charlotte  Corday.  At  a  dinner  given  by 
Dazincourt  all  differences  were  healed :  the  House  of 
Moliere  rose  upon  its  ruins  in  a  single  night ;  and,  to 
the  joy  of  Paris,  the  reunited  players  made  their  first 
appearance  in  '  The  Cid.' 


312 


GAVARNI. 

Gavarni  has  been  compared  with  Balzac.  The 
comparison  is  daring,  but  not  inapt.  Gavarni  the 
artist  and  Balzac  the  novelist,  each  in  his  way,  made 
Paris  and  her  people  his  own  ;  and  the  pencil  of  the 
one  was  as  fertile  and  as  indefatigable,  as  conscien- 
tious and  as  veracious,  as  the  pen  of  the  other. 
Both  men  had  an  enormous  power  of  production,  and 
both  were  scrupulous  sticklers  for  the  truth  of  things. 
By  critics  who  would  not,  or  who  could  not,  judge 
him  rightly  Gavarni  was  sometimes  dubbed  a  cari- 
caturist. He  took  no  offence,  but  he  said  quite  truly 
that  the  description  did  not  fit  him.  Satirist  he  was, 
and  humourist,  and  philosopher,  and  an  almost  un- 
rivalled delineator  of  types ;  but  in  the  ten  thousand 
designs  which  represent  his  work,*  there  is  perhaps 
not  one  which  is  properly  a  caricature.     In  the  vast 

*  The  brothers  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt,  Gavarni's  best 
biographers,  say  that  he  completed  ten  thousand  pieces. 


GAVARNI  313 

range  and  variety  of  his  performance,  again,  Gavarni 
stands  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  author  of  the 
1  Comedie  Humaine.'  All  Paris  came  within  his  ken, 
he  swept  all  Paris  into  his  portfolio.  High  and  low, 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  Gavarni's  pencil  em- 
braces all  types :  the  aristocrat,  the  bourgeois,  the 
banker,  the  lawyer,  the  money-lender,  the  borrower, 
the  student,  the  grisette  and  all  other  women,  the 
actor,  the  opera-singer,  the  dancer,  the  debtor  in 
prison,  the  criminal  on  his  way  to  prison,  the  young 
dandy,  the  old  rake,  the  politician,  the  pawnbroker, 
the  mountebank,  the  labouring-man,  the  clerk,  the 
street  arab,  the '  enfant  terrible,'  the  '  enfant  prodigue ;' 
the  hawker,  the  concierge ;  and  to  each  of  these  he 
attaches  some  little  pungent  legend  of  a  line  or  two, 
the  words  of  which  seem  to  drop  into  the  ear  from 
the  street-corner,  the  salon,  the  attic,'  or  the  coulisses, 
like  the  unfrozen  words  in  Rabelais. 

Sainte-Beuve  reminds  us,  in  the  acute  and  sympa- 
thetic essay  with  which  he  prefaces  the  collection  of 
k  Masques  et  Visages,'  that  Gavarni  was  a  '  nom  de 
guerre,'  a  pencil-name.  At  the  counter  of  the  pub- 
lisher Susse,  to  whom  he  had  carried  one  of  the  first 
of  his  drawings  which  was  worth  printing  (he  had 
drawn,  as  Balzac  had  written,  an  incredible  quantity 
of  rubbish),  it  was  suggested  to  him  that  he  should 
give  the  work  his  signature. 


314  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

'  People  will  buy  a  print  with  a  name  under  it, 
said  Susse. 

Posed  for  a  moment,  the  artist  bethought  him  of  a 
certain  valley  of  Gavarnie,  in  the  Pyrenees,  where 
he  had  lived  some  hungry  and  happy  weeks.  Cutting 
off  the  feminine  e  from  the  name,  he  signed  his  sketch 
Gavarni,  and  thus  was  baptised,  says  Sainte-Beuve, 
all  the  work  of  his  that  was  to  come. 

Guillaume-Sulpice  Chevallier  was  his  name,  and 
he  was  born  in  Paris  on  the  13th  of  January,  1804. 
His  father,  Sulpice  Chevallier,  ■fifty-nine  years  old 
when  this  son  came  to  him  by  a  second  wife,  sprang 
from  a  substantial  family  of  coopers,  whose  first 
home  was  in  Burgundy.  Old  Sulpice  had  a  taste  of 
the  Revolution,  and  kept  a  rather  bitter  memory  of 
it.  To  his  father  and  his  mother  Gavarni  was  always 
tenderly  devoted ;  at  thirty-one  years  of  age  he 
wrote  in  his  journal,  on  the  29th  of  September,  1835  : 

'  I  am  dishonoured  in  my  own  eyes.  I  had  prom- 
ised my  father  not  to  smoke  until  the  12th  of  October, 
and  I  have  just  smoked  a  cigar.  Let  me  note  it 
down  against  myself.' 

He  told  the  De  Goncourts  that,  when  a  boy,  he 
used  occasionally  to  spend  an  evening  in  a  wine- 
shop ;  one  night  the  father  followed,  and,  seating 
himself  at  a  table  facing  his  son's,  regarded   him 


GAVARNI  315 

silently  with  no  recognition  in  his  eyes.  Gavami 
never  returned  to  the  tavern. 

His  education  was  quite  professional ;  geometry, 
design,  linear  design  with  a  view  to  architecture, 
and  some  practice  in  that  delicate  branch  of  mechan- 
ics which  is  concerned  -with  instruments  of  precision. 
At  twenty  he  was  drawing  plans  in  a  surveyor's 
office  in  Tarbes,  spent  some  years  there  not  over- 
profitably,  and  then  set  out  upon  a  long  and  lonely 
travel  through  the  Pyrenees  (reduced  at  times  to 
mending  his  shoes  with  bits  of  paste-board),  deter- 
mined to  be  a  landscape-painter,  or  nothing. 

His  second  epoch  opens  in  Paris,  in  the  year  1828. 
Up  to  this  period  we  have  it  on  the  authority  of  the 
De  Goncourts  that  Gavami  had  failed  very  badly. 
A  writer  he  might  be,  for  the  journals  which  he 
kept  all  his  life  showed  him  even  now  endowed  with 
powers  of  thought  and  a  real  gift  of  style  ;  but  a 
landscape-painter, — no  !  He  had  scarce  a  notion  of 
colour  (he  who,  with  the  pen,  could  set  out  a  scene 
glowing  with  harmonious  tints),  and  his  drawing  of 
a  landscape  was  stiff,  jeune,  and  childish.  But 
Paris  was  to  find  out  the  true  stuff  in  him.  He  was 
twenty-four  when  he  returned  to  it  from  the  soli- 
tudes and  silences  of  the  Pyrenees,  and  that  vast 
and  varied  human  tableau  moved  him  strangely,  pro- 


316  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

ducing  in  him,  as  the  De  Goncourts  say,  '  a  kind  of 
fever  and  burning  curiosity.'  He  saw  that  Paris  was 
his  world,  and  with  his  pencil  he  would  conquer  it. 

'  II  reste  a  etre  vrai '  (it  remains  to  be  true,  or,  one 
must  stick  to  life  itself)  ;  such  a  motto  he  had  chosen, 
and  to  this  motto  his  whole  artistic  life  was  entirely 
and  unswervingly  loyal. 

But  the  stiff  and  formal  hand  of  the  surveyor's 
clerk,  of  the  designer  of  instruments  of  precision, 
had  still  a  great  deal  to  unlearn,  and  a  candid  critic 
of  the  Gavarni  of  this  date  describes  him  as  produc- 
ing '  only  wretched  little  things.'  He  did  some 
vignettes  for  Beranger,  a  set  of  grotesques  for  a 
dealer,  and  a  number  of  Pyrenean  sketches, — all  of 
which  are  properly  forgotten.  His  best  work  at  this 
time  was  buried  in  his  note-books ;  sketching  like  a 
madman  in  the  streets,  the  cafes,  the  theatres,  the 
tea-gardens,  the  public  ball-rooms,  he  stored  his 
memory  with  faces,  figures,  types  of  every  kind,  till, 
in  later  years,  he  was  able  to  dispense  altogether 
with  the  living  model.  In  his  prime  he  could  re- 
produce the  likeness  of  a  man  whom  he  had  seen  in 
the  street  twenty  years  earlier,  and  all  his  best  and 
most  characteristic  figures  have  the  air  of  having 
never  sat  for  the  likeness  that  betrays  them.  The 
artist  has  taken  his  models  unawares ;  their  attitudes 
are  the  attitudes  of  life  itself.     This  is  the  happy 


GAVARNI  317 

outcome  of  those  years  of  study,  patient  at  once  and 
frantic, — morning  noon  and  night, — in  all  places 
where  the  human  subject  was  to  be  observed  in  his 
proper  and  easy  habit.  When  his  pencil  grew  nimble, 
the  sketch  was  made  (in  outline,  at  least)  before  the 
unconscious  sitter  was  aware  of  it.  He  designed  a 
great  many  fashion-plates  for  Emile  de  Girardin's 
new  venture,  '  La  Mode,'  and  evidently  with  much 
success. 

Gavarni  had  a  passion  for  fine  clothes,  clothes 
which  were  a  part  of  the  distinction  and  individuality 
of  the  wearer.  In  his  own  attire  he  was  original, 
elegant,  and  not  a  little  dandified ;  and  he  would 
say,  when  the  money  ran  short : 

'  I  don't  mind  pulling  the  devil  by  the  tail,  but  I 
mean  to  do  it  in  yellow  kids.' 

His  work  for  '  La  Mode  '  is  unknown  to  me,  but 
the  De  Goncourts  declare  that  such  fine,  curious  and 
delicate  fashion-drawings  had  not  before  been 
printed. 

In  1832  appeared  the  two  series  of  '  Les  Traves- 
tissements  '  and  '  Les  Physionomies  de  la  Population 
de  Paris;'  and  now,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight, 
Gavarni  was  a  known  and  appreciated  talent.  The 
Press  took  note  of  him:  Eugene  Sue  wanted  his 
pencil ;  and  Balzac  (by  whom  he  had  been  commis- 
'sioned  to  illustrate  '  La  Peau  de  Chagrin ')  made  him 


318  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

the  subject  of  a  long  and  appreciative  article  in  a 
newspaper  of  the  day.  In  the  first  of  these  series 
Gavarni  shows  himself  the  fantaisiste  of  costume. 

'All  the  light,  and  colour,  and  gaiety  of  the  bal 
masque?  wrote  Balzac,  '  sparkle  in  these  designs. 
Any  one  of  these  costumes  would  confer  distinction 
and  originality  upon  the  most  insignificant  wearer. 
The  ladies  will  be  longing  to  don  them  ;  their  hus- 
bands will  insist  upon  their  doing  so.' 

'  Les  Physionomies '  had  an  instant  and  signal 
success,  and  over  these  Balzac  waxed  yet  warmer. 

'  It  is  not  so  much  that  Gavarni  poses  his  subjects 
as  that  he  confesses  them,'  says  the  delighted  critic  ; 
'  he  makes  each  one  of  them  tell  his  little  history.' 

Society  began  to  invite  the  young  artist  abroad. 
Duchesse  d'Abrantes  constituted  herself  his  patroness, 
and  at  her  house  he  met  pleasant  and  famous  people. 
He  is  all  at  once  in  the  whirl  of  it :  dinners,  suppers, 
balls,  the  opera,  the  theatre,  the  race-course  ;  so 
much  and  so  continuously  in  the  whirl  of  it  that  he 
notes  in  his  journal, — '  Actually  slept  at  home  last 
night.' 

Despite  his  bourgeois  birth  and  rearing,  Gavarni, 
as  Sainte-Beuve  insists,  was  always  a  polished  gentle- 
man. He  had  an  air  and  manner  of  his  own ;  some- 
thing of  reserve,  something  even  of  hauteur.  He 
abhorred  in  everything  the  little  and  the  common- 


GAVARN1  319 

place,  and  the  originality  which  was  stamped  upon 
his  work  was  no  less  a  character  of  the  man.  He 
talked  well,  easily,  and  freshly,  and  was  never  want- 
ing in  ideas.  Theophile  Gautier,  whose  acquaintance 
he  had  just  made,  has  left  a  description  of  Gavarni 
at  twenty-eight,  which  brings  before  us  a  tall,  slender, 
graceful  and  handsome  young  man,  with  a  quantity 
of  fair  hair,  moustaches  curled  and  pointed  in  the 
military  style,  arrayed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with 
a  certain  English  severity  of  detail  ('  avec  quelque 
chose  d'Anglais  pour  la  rigueur  du  detail  en  fait  de 
toilette '),  and  possessing  in  the  highest  degree  the 
sentiment  of  modern  elegance. 

What  Gavarni  wanted  now  was  a  paper  of  his  own, 
and  after  infinite  pains,  and  apparently  without  a 
sou,  he  brought  out  number  one  of  '  Le  Journal  des 
Gens  du  Monde'  (one  did  not  dine  at  Duchesse 
d'Abrantes'  for  nothing),  to  which  his  own  airy  and 
charming  pen  contributed  the  leading  article.  Alfred 
de  Vigny  wrote  for  it,  and  so  did  Sainte-Beuve,  and 
Gautier,  and  the  elder  Dumas,  and  Victor  Hugo,  to 
say  nothing  of  titled  amateurs  with  the  faithful 
Duchess  at  their  head  ;  and  Gavarni  flooded  it  with 
the  humours  of  his  pencil.  But  when  an  artist  begins 
a  newspaper,  the  wicked  fairy  is  always  present  at 
the  birth  ;  and  the  new  journal,  for  all  its  high- 
sounding  title,  died  in  throes  of  its  twentieth  number* 


320  AN  IDLER  IN   OLD  FRANCE 

It  left  Gavarni  the  heritage  of  a  debt  which,  with 
the  inevitable  renewals,  hampered  him  for  years.  In 
1834  he  was  scouring  Paris  for  money,  and,  not  find- 
ing enough  of  it,  the  end  of  that  year  saw  him  an 
inmate  of  the  debtors'  prison  of  Clichy. 

If  Dickens  had  not  written  '  Little  Dorrit,'  it  would 
be  interesting  to  write  of  Clichy ;  but  Clichy  and  the 
Marshalsea  seem  to  have  been  almost  the  same 
prison,  with  the  same  little  cliques,  the  same  little 
idle  etiquette,  the  same  little  strained  humours  (in 
the  easiest  of  prisons  nobody  laughs  from  his  heart), 
and  the  same  little  genuine  tragedies  which  can 
never  be  quite  covered  up.  Gavarni,  a  natural 
philosopher,  fell  back  on  his  philosophy  in  Clichy, 
and  missed  nothing  of  the  sordid  panorama.  Re- 
stored to  freedom,  he  went  to  work  at  once  upon 
the  series  known  as  '  L' Argent,'  in  which  he  has  set 
out  all  the  acrid  wit  and  all  the  lowly  and  unroman- 
tic  pathos  of  the  relations  of  borrower  and  lender. 
From  the  smug  money-lender,  wondering  that  any- 
body should  grumble  at  this  thirty-five  per  cent.,  we 
pass  to  the  seedy  and  desolate  figure  of  his  victim, 
the  broken  debtor,  standing  disconsolate  against  the 
door  of  his  cell,  digesting  the  '  first  quarter  of  an 
hour  of  a  five  years'  sentence.' 

The  cares  of  debt  notwithstanding  (for  debts  be- 
gan  anew  after  Clichy),    Gavarni   was  producing 


GAVARNI  321 

rapidly   in   these   days.     Most   notable   among    the 
series  were  '  Les  Fourberies  de  Femme  '  (the  Tricks 
of  the  Sex),  and  the  theatrical  sets  of  the  '  Musee  de 
Costume,'  the  '  Coulisses  '  and  the  '  Actrices.'  In  'Les 
Fourberies '  he  dealt  with  some  of  the  whims,  faults, 
vices  of  the  society  of  his  day  ;  but  Gavarni's  satires 
were   never   brutal   and   never   cruel ;    and   as   for 
women,  whom  he  fascinated  all  his  life,  though  he 
himself  seems  never  to  have  been  very  seriously  in 
love,  the  artist  is  always  on  the  side  of  chivalry. 
After  these  came  the  famous  and  witty  gallery  of 
Students  ('  Etudiants  de  Paris  ')  a  collection  of  some 
sixty  plates,  wherein  are  preserved  for  our  entertain- 
ment an   existence   and  a  world  of  the  past.     For 
the  student  of  Gavarni's  epoch  (the  more  or  less 
civilised  descendant  of  the  mad   crew  of  Murger) 
has  disappeared   from  Paris  as  utterly  as  his  true 
old  Latin  Quarter,    that  '  Paradise  of  misery   and 
capital  of  hope.'     Here  he  is,  however,  in  these  de- 
lightful  and  veracious  pages ;    the  student  of  fifty 
years   ago,   a   little   State   within   the    State ;    the 
future  of  France  in   an  extraordinary  hat   or   cap, 
and  yet  more  extraordinary   trousers,  the  redingote 
buttoned    to    conceal   the    absence   of    waistcoat, 
long-haired    and    decidedly   fantastic ;  the   student 
who  is  the  personal  enemy  of  all  '  sergents  de  ville  ' 
and   other   guardians   of  order ;    the  student  who 

Y 


322  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

is  habitually  penniless,  but  who  has  his  own 
cafes,  his  own  quarters,  his  appointed  place  in  the 
theatre,  his  immemorial  usages,  and  his  'religion 
revealed  by  Beranger ;'  the  student  who  pawns  his 
velvet  smoking-cap,  or  his  favourite  meerschaum,  or 
his  entire  library,  to  have  the  wherewithal  of  a  night 
at  the  Bal  de  1'  Opera,  where,  as  fast  as  one  dance  is 
forbidden,  he  invents  another  and  a  wilder  one,  to 
the  despair  of  authority  in  a  three-cornered  hat. 

Carnival-time,  by  the  way,  threw  Gavarni  into  a 
veritable  fever.  He  complains  in  his  journal  that 
he  cannot  sleep  at  night  for  excitement  and  the 
twitchings  in  his  legs  after  incessant  dancing;  a 
notice  on  his  door  told  his  friends  that  the  Saturday 
gossip  was  suspended,  and  wherever  the  cotillon  was, 
Gavarni's  heels  would  be  flying.  Sainte-Beuve  says 
that  Gavarni  re-created  the  Carnival  and  made  it 
young  again.  He  set  a  new  fashion  in  costumes  for 
the  bal  masque',  which,  before  his  time,  had  followed 
year  after  year  the  traditional  types  of  the  old 
Italian  comedy,  Pierrot,  Arlequin  and  Company. 
How  many  costumes  Gavarni  designed  for  this  wear, 
he  himself  could  not  have  said,  but  it  is  certain  that 
everybody  wanted  a  hint  for  one  from  his  pencil. 
Sainte-Beuve  thinks  he  may  have  borrowed  a  notion 
now  and  then  from  Watteau,  but  is  sure  that  his 


GAVAHN1  323 

happiest  inspirations  were  always  those  of  the  fairy 
in  his  own  brain. 

In  the  three  unrivalled  series  of  '  Le  Carnaval,' 
1  Les  D^bardeurs '  and  '  La  Foire  aux  Amours,'  we 
are  flung  into  the  midst  of  the  unique  nocturnal  life 
of  that  surprising  festival.  The  De  Goncourts  say 
that  the  bal  masqut  of  this  era  was  a  kind  of  gymnas- 
tique  enragee,  or  acrobatism  run  mad ;  but  it  had  its 
graceful  as  well  as  its  extravagant  and  clownish  sides, 
and  if  the  humour  was  often  Pantagruelian,  it  was 
sometimes  also  as  fine  as  a  mot  of  Voltaire. 

Here,  in  these  rare  albums,  is  the  whole  frenetic, 
many-voiced  and  many-coloured  Carnival  for  you, 
the  Carnival  of  Paris  and  Gavarni,  the  Carnival  that 
was  and  that  is  not,  the  Carnival  that  will  be  no 
more :  the  storm  and  whirl  of  music  and  the  daring 
dance ;  the  brassy  lights ;  the  tossing,  foamy  sea  of 
the  white  bonnets  of  countless  Pierrots ;  the  dominos 
of  silk  and  velvet ;  the  shimmer  and  flutter  of  ribbons 
and  laces,  the  nodding  of  plumes  and  feathers  in  the 
yellow  dusty  air  ;  the  grisettes  in  black  silk  masks, 
zouave  jackets,  and  wide  velvet  trousers  reaching  to 
the  ankle ;  the  spangled  harlequins ;  the  monkeys 
with  tails  half  pulled  off  in  the  mih'e ;  the  bear 
taking  his  head  off  in  a  corner  to  cool  himself,  and 
discovering  the  homely  and  spectacled  visage  of  a 

y  2 


821  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD   FRANCE 

middle-aged  citizen ;  the  savages  whom  no  savage 
region  would  acknowledge ;  the  false  noses  of  all 
shapes,  sizes,  and  colours ;  the  false  beards,  and 
goggle  eyes,  and  pasteboard  cheeks ;  the  mock  gen- 
erals, with  a  hearth-brush  or  a  poker  dangling  from 
the  sword-belt ;  the  bawling  of  an  ultra-sentimental 
song  to  a  guitar  out  of  tune,  heard  for  a  moment 
above  the  hubbub  ;  the  sale  by  auction  of  an  Adam 
and  Eve  '  who  have  lost  the  money  for  their  return 
to  Eden,  and  will  refuse  no  offer  in  reason ;'  the 
Doisy  appeal  of  a  reveller  from  the  ledge  of  a  box, 
to  the  crowd  below,  to  tejl  him  the  address  of  the 
maiden  aunt  with  whom  he  had  promised  to  spend 
the  evening  quietly ;  and  of  another,  imploring  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies  to  pay  off  his  debts  and 
set  him  up  in  business  as  an  ambassador ;  the  fierce 
burlesque  quarrels  ;  the  ceremonious  salutes  preface- 
ing  some  ridiculous  or  impudent  request ;  the  invita- 
tions to  supper  ;  the  final  galop,  that  galop  of  Lenore 
in  which  the  revel  attains  its  grand  climacteric ;  and 
then,  at  last,  the  pouring  out  of  the  motley  throng 
into  the  pale  streets  at  daybreak. 

His  innumerable  pictures  of  the  Carnival  set  out 
at  his  best  Gavarni's  genius  for  the  grotesque.  No 
one  has  ever  contrived  to  get  so  much  expression 
out  of  a  false  nose ;  no  one  has  made  a  dead  mask 
speak  as  these  masks  of  Gavarni  speak.     The  false 


GA  VARNI  825 

nose  in  these  cartoons  becomes  a  live  feature,  which 
declares  the  identity  it  would  conceal.  The  mask  of 
tinted  pasteboard  observes,  listens,  meditates,  and 
utters  itself  in  epigram. 

The  phrases  in  epigram,  attached  to  the  cartoons, 
were  as  deeply  relished  in  Gavarni's  Paris  as  were 
the  cartoons  themselves ;  and  he  gave  a  world  of 
pains  to  them.  They  were  always  (with  two  very 
trivial  exceptions,  I  believe)  of  his  own  invention, 
and  the  best  of  them  defy  translation.  He  had  a 
taste  in  letters  as  exact  and  scrupulous  as  his  taste 
in  art,  and  a  nice  and  witty  phrase  haunted  and 
possessed  him.  Someone  said  that  if  a  happy  mot 
were  dropped  at  table,  Gavarni  would  pick  it  up  and 
dine  on  it.  Balzac  not  excepted,  no  one  has  han- 
dled the  spoken  language  of  the  day, — the  language 
of  the  streets,  the  shops,  the  music-halls,  the  cafes, 
the  coulisses,  the  studios — as  Gavarni  has  done  ;  that 
language  within  the  language,  non-academical  but 
national,  clipped,  brisk,  pointed,  coloured,  and  ever- 
changing.  By  this  time  he  had  conquered  and  had 
made  his  own  the  Paris  of  his  heart.  His  drawing, 
in  this  or  the  other  illustrated  journal,  was  the  artis- 
tic event  of  the  day ;  it  was  demanded  at  the  cap, 
it  was  discussed  at  the  club. 

In  lc"47  Gavarni  found  himself   in   London.     His 
renown  had  gone  before  him,  and  the  De  Goncourts 


826  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

tell  a  curious  story,  which  has  the  air  of  apocrypha, 
of  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert,  '  in  their  Palace  of 
Windsor,'  seated  on  the  floor  like  children,   culling 
Gavarni's  drawings  from  a  pile  of  French  newspa- 
pers, and  cutting  out  and  pasting  in  an  album  those 
they  liked  best.     It  is  certain,  however,  that  society 
in  London  was  quite  prepared  to  lionise  the  distin- 
guished satirist ;  but  Gavarni  had  other  plans.      He 
was  never  of  a  very  social  or  expansive   habit,  and 
during  his  lengthened  stay  in  this  country  the  draw- 
ing-rooms of  fashion  did  not  see   him.     Thackeray 
called,  and  was  anxious  to  do  for  him  the  honours 
of  the  West-end  ;  and  Dickens  followed  Thackeray ; 
but  Gavarni's    extreme  reserve  chilled  them  both, 
and  they  left  him  to  himself.     He  found  his  pleasure 
in  making  studies  of  the  common  folk  (of  which  the 
Illustrated  London  News  published  many),  and  it  is 
interesting  to  note  how  soon  and  how  thoroughly  he 
seized  the  English  physiognomy.      His  sailors,  cos- 
termongers,  hot-potato-men,  hawkers,  and  the  vic- 
tims of  gin,  are  not  inferior  in  truth  and  exactness  to 
the  types  which  he  had  been  sketching  all  his  life 
in  Paris. 

Gavarni's  voluntary  isolation  did  not  irk  him  in 
the  least,  and  he  liked  England  and  the  English. 
'  England,'  he  wrote  to  a  friend  in  Paris,  '  is  the 


GAVARN1  327 

most  charming  country  in  the  world  for  the  purely 
material  life,  but  beyond  that  the  heart  seems  to 
have  nothing  to  lean  upon.  It  is  their  lack  of  heart ' 
[an  odd  criticism,  this,  from  a  native  of  Paris]  '  that 
makes  the  English  so  easy  to  get  on  with  '  ('  si  peu 
genants '). 

Of  the  women  he  says : 

4 1  would  tell  you  about  them  if  I  could,  but  I 
really  don't  know  what  an  Englishwoman  is.  I  have 
an  idea,  however,  that  in  full  attire,  she  is  no  longer 
a  woman  but  a  cathedral '  ('ce  n'est  plus  une  femme, 
c'est  une  cathedrale '). 

Since  he  deliberately  withheld  himself  from  so- 
ciety in  London,  it  would  be  incorrect  to  describe 
Gavarni's  visit  there  as  a  social  failure ;  but  he  was 
guilty  of  one  glaring  breach  of  etiquette  and  the 
polite  usages  which  would  have  made  success  in  the 
great  world  ever  afterwards  impossible.  It  appears 
that  he  had  been  commissioned  to  make  a  sketch  of 
her  Majesty,  and  that,  at  the  very  last  moment,  he 
had  the  bad  taste  to  forego  compliance  with  the  royal 
behest.  Palette  and  brushes  had  actually  been  de- 
spatched to  the  palace,  and  Gavarni  was  following, 
or  on  the  point  of  following,  when  he  suddenly  de- 
cided not  to  go.  The  gigantic  rudeness  of  the 
decision   compels  an  unwilling  laugh  ;  but  let  me 


328  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

hasten  to  add  that  Gavarni,  a  man  of  the  sincerest 
natural  politeness,  never  pardoned  himself  for  that 
unpardonable  solecism,  and  that,  in  making  confession 
to  the  De  Goncourts,  he  assured  them  that  he  could 
not  say  what  mad  impulse  had  inspired  him.  The 
offence  was,  nevertheless,  remembered  against  him 
in  this  country,  and  when,  some  years  later,  he  re- 
ceived the  decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  the 
Times  published  a  leading  article  in  protest. 

Back  in  Paris,  after  a  tour  on  foot  through  the 
Hebrides,  Gavarni  found  the  calls  upon  his  magic 
pencil  as  numerous  as  ever.  He  was  happy  in  find- 
ing also  that  advancing  years  in  no  way  stayed  his 
powers  of  production.  He  not  only  retained  at  fifty 
the  physical  freshness,  vigour,  and  vitality  of  thirty ; 
but,  at  this  age,  his  fecundity  of  imagination  and 
facility  of  execution  enabled  him  to  furnish  for  the 
Comte  de  Villedeuil's  new  journal,  '  Paris,'  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  cartoons  in  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  successive  days,  a  feat  perhaps  unrivalled. 
Never  a  sheet  was  wasted  on  a  rough  sketch,  nor 
had  the  artist  anything  before  him  to  assist  his  mem- 
ory ;  yet  the  works  of  this  period,  begun  and  finished 
at  a  sitting,  and  without  the  intermission  of  a  single 
day,  include  the  series  of '  Les  Lorettes  Vieillies '  (the 
sombre  and  sometimes  sordid  humours  of  decayed 
and  decrepit  love),  '  L'Histoire  de  Politiquer '  (fine 


GAVARNI  S2& 

and  penetrating  satires  on  politics  and  political  per- 
sons, abhorred  all  his  life  by  Gavarni),*  *  Les  Par- 
tageuses '  (a  series  which  discovers  anew  his  extra- 
ordinary knowledge  of  the  woman  and  women  of 
Paris),  '  Les  Propos  de  Thomas  Vireloque  '  (ragged 
cynic  and  philosopher,  a  '  Wandering  Jew  of  moral 
Doubt  and  modern  Desolation,'  the  gravedigger  of 
mundane  illusions  and  social  unveracities),  and  '  Les 
Anglais  chez  Eux.' 

From  his  quarters  in  the  Rue  Fontaine  St.  Georges, 
where,  out  of  a  vast  chamber  with  thirteen  windows, 
had  been  contrived  the  very  oddest  collection  of 
rooms  and  cabinets,  Gavarni  had  betaken  himself  to 
Auteuil.  Here  he  had  become  the  possessor  of  an 
ideal  retreat ;  a  snug  house,  a  retired  garden,  and  a 
perfect  little  park  enclosing  them.  In  this  cherished 
spot,  his  artist's  fame  at  its  height,  Gavarni  had  but 
three  wishes :  to  work  as  it  pleased  him,  and  no 
longer  at  the  bidding  of  editors  and  publishers ;  to 
dream  dreams ;  and  to  enrich  and  beautify  his  little 
estate.  Years  of  quiet  living,  and  enjoyment  of 
his  own,  had  wedded  his  heart  to  this  placid  home- 
stall  ;   and  his  terraces  and  avenues  of  chestnuts,  his 

*  In  the  matter  of  politics  he  had  a  fixed  and  statutory  formula : 
'  Ce  qu'on  appelle  esprit  public  est  la  betise  de  chacun  multipliue 
par  la  betise  de  tout  le  monde  '  (the  thing  they  call  public  opinion 
is  your  stupidity  and  mine,  multiplied  by  everybody's). 


330  AN  IDLER  IN  OLD  FRANCE 

hills  and  valleys  in  miniature,  had  drained  his  coffers 
of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  francs.  On  a  sudden, 
warning  came  that  he  must  quit.  They  were  build- 
ing a  new  railway,  and  that  blind  inflexible  line  was 
destined  to  cut  Gavarni's  existence  in  twain.  He 
appealed  by  letter  to  the  king,  but  his  letter  (never 
received,  perhaps,)  was  never  answered.  He  saw 
the  roof  stripped  from  his  house,  his  studio  hurled 
in  ruin  and  confusion,  his  beloved  garden  bruised 
and  crushed. 

He  was  in  failing  health  at  the  time,  and  his  leaf 
withered  quickly.  He  bought  a  dreary  big  house 
in  Paris,  which  he  did  not  want,  and  which  he  could 
not  afford  to  maintain.  Here,  within  a  pace  or  two 
of  the  teeming,  brilliant  life  which  no  pencil  had 
ever  rendered  quite  as  his  had  done,  he  made  him- 
self a  living  sepulchre.  He  became,  the  De  Gon- 
courts  say,  a  man  for  whom  time  had  ceased ;  a  man 
who  knew  neither  hour,  day,  nor  month.  He  scarce- 
ly crossed  his  own  threshold,  and  scarcely  suffered 
it  to  be  crossed.  He  died  on  the  24th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1866 ;  and  his  tomb  bears  the  simple,  proud 
inscription:  Gavarni. 

THE  END. 


London  .•  Printed  by  Duncan  Macdonald,  Blenheim  House,  W. 


One  Volume  Demy  Octavo,  cloth,  Illustrated,  price  Is.  6d. 
SOME    PRESS    NOTICES 

OF 

'The    Dungeons  of  Old    Paris' 

By  TIGHE  HOPKINS 
Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  in  the  '  Daily  Telegraph.' 

'  .  .  .  These  are  but  few  of  the  many  romantic  and  thrilling  pages  in 
this  highly  entertaining,  though  now  and  then  saddening  volume.' 

Mr.  T.  P.  O'Connor,  M.P.,  in  the  '  Graphic' 

'Mr.  Tighe  Hopkins,  in  his  infinitely  interesting  and  readable  vol- 
ume, brings  before  us  nearly  all  the  ages  of  prison  treatment  in  France. 
To  a  certain  extent,  his  book  is  thus  an  epitome  of  French  history — at 
least,  of  its  most  dramatic  moments.  In  these  vivid  pages  we  see, 
alive  and  moving  again,  the  darkest  and  the  brightest  personages  in  a 
country  which,  as  De  Tocqueville  said  long  ago,  might  delight  or  shock, 
but  never  would  cease  to  interest  humanity.' 

The  late  Mr.  James  Payn,  in  the  '  Illustrated 
London  News.' 

'  We  have  been  so  accustomed  to  meet  Mr.  Tighe  Hopkins  in  the 
realms  of  what  novelists  hate  to  hear  called"  light  literature,"  that  to  find 
him  discoursing  upon  "  1  he  Dungeons  of  Old  Paris  "  is  almost  as  sur- 
prising as  to  discover  him  in  an  oubliette.  That  he  should  have  taken 
up  such  a  subject,  and  treated  it  satisfactorily,  should  not,  however, 
be  wondered  at  when  one  remembers  that  there  is  a  reverse  of  the 
medal  with  most  humorists,  and  that  next  to  what  is  amusing  they  are 
attracted  by  that  which  appals.  There  were  few  subjects  in  conversa- 
tion in  which  both  Dickens  and  Thackeray  were  more  interested  than 
in  dramatic — and,  indeed,  melodramatic — incidents.  Mr.  Hopkins's 
volume  has,  of  course,  many  of  them,  but  it  is  also  full  of  historic  and 
archaeological  information.' 

Standard. 

'  Its  human  interest  is  far-reaching  and  dramatic.' 

Daily  Mail. 

'  The  most  fascinatingly  gruesome  book  that  has  come  our  way  for  a 
long  time.  Mr.  Hopkins  has  accumulated  a  vast  amount  of  most 
interesting  historical  material,  and  has  employed  it  with  consummate 
■kill.' 

World. 

1  It  is  not  given  to  every  writer  to  produce  a  readable  and  even  a 
fascinating  book  on  a  subject  of  unrelieved  grimness  and  gloom. 
Nothing  less  than  this,  however,  has  been  accomplished  by  Mr.  Tighe 
BopkJoi  in  "  The  Dungeons  of  Old  Paris"  .  .  .  The  book  thrills  and 
holds  the  reader.' 


Academy. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

wrrnt — .mcwALs 


******** 

RECD  IB-"** 

OCT  131987 
NOV    H987 


London  and  New  York:  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS. 

(A  New  and  Cheaper  Edition  in  the  Press.) 


Ire 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


000145  469    3 


<7 

17 


